All Hail the Time Lord's Son
by Forensica X
Summary: Not Not-Human Book Two: Newly minted Hogwarts professors Rose and the Doctor do their best to help their son navigate his decidedly odd circumstances. Armed with a sonic scanner, his magic, his closest friends, and the support of his family, Harry faces his hardest trial, yet.
1. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N 4/14/16: Yay! New Content! I hope you enjoy. This latest series of updates were completed in about 72 hours, and while I proof-read multiple times, I still may have missed some typos. Please forgive any you notice and send me a P.M. if you have the time.

Also, you're all amazing. Your reviews, kindness, and support have helped me more than you'll ever know. Thank you.

* * *

Chapter One: Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

* * *

**20 June 2013**

Cold gripped his chest. Green flashes filled the periphery of his vision. Shrill screams rent the night around him while smoky black shapes, silhouetted against the orange glow of the spreading fire in the distance, fled in every direction. He crouched low beside what used to be a handsome garden wall. His heart beat too-fast tattoo somewhere in his throat. Something warm and sticky made a clammy path down the side of his face. Everything smelled of ash and blood.

Ash and blood.

Brown eyes stared blindly from behind smeared, cracked, round glasses. Smears of red trailed from the nostrils, ears, and mouth.

Broken stairs barred his way, and then another set of useless, dulled irises made him falter. Red hair. So much red hair splayed around a bleached face dotted with sand-coloured freckles.

Blood smeared the bars of the empty crib.

The smell.

_His_ smell.

He howled in agony. The images slid around and drained from his head as his body slowly woke, but it took several moments longer for his howls to calm to broken whines. The black wolfhound curled in on itself until the whines and the disjointed flashes to abate. It still felt cold, but the pain seemed numbed in comparison. His belly ached, but he felt no worse for it. Hunger further distracted him from the memories that plagued his nightmares.

Movement rustled beyond the bars, and the cold pressed more insistently against his matted fur and lice-bitten flesh until it faded to almost nothing. He resisted the urge to whine again as his mind focused and his bones shifted, and by the time the ward door screeched open, a man lay in the dog's place. Footsteps echoed loudly through the wide hall, and the darkness fled by inches beneath the influence of a pale white light. The snapping, shuffling tread stopped.

"Sirius Black?"

He didn't recognise the voice. He blinked, stared at its owner through the dim, and frowned. He didn't recognise the face, either.

"Prisoner Black, approach the bars."

The man trembled violently as he forced his limbs to comply. The speaker waited for him to stumble nearer until Sirius leaned heavily against the cold, greasy, dirt-smeared iron with his bony hands wrapped around two bars with his face framed between them.

"Stick out your tongue."

He complied. Three cold, bitter drops landed there, and he realised belatedly that some of the ache in his belly belonged to thirst, not hunger. It didn't matter, though. A wonderful lightness filled his head.

"What is your name?"

"Sirius Orion Black."

Someone he could not see beyond the white glow wrote something down. He could hear the unmistakable scratch of a quill against parchment.

"What is your crime?"

The gaunt man wanted to say 'murder,' but the potion's insidious power curled his tongue for a more exact answer.

"Attempted murder."

The speaker's wand, which he held carefully pointed at the prisoner, faltered a little.

"What?"

He clarified as was expected of him. He felt like crying, but the potion kept his voice even and his mind dulled.

"I tried to kill Peter Pettigrew. He got away."

"What?"

"I tried to kill him for betraying Lily, James and Harry."

Another voice cut across the response the first speaker had intended, but Sirius couldn't see him or her from behind the white glow.

"What was the verdict given to you at the conclusion of your trial?"

Sirius paused. His brain was slow to conjure an answer.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't remember a trial. I was brought directly here."

He blinked during the silence his response brought on. His knees shook. He felt so tired and weak.

"Shite-"

"Let's go. We have to report back."

Sirius didn't remember them leaving, really. He just recalled the door closing again, and the cold coming back, so he slipped again into the hound's body and lay again in the corner. His mind slid again between awareness and sleep, where his dreams took him back to the worst day of his life.

* * *

**26 June 2013**

"_Step aside, foul idiot," Quirrell shrilly shrieked. "You're my beast, and you shall obey me!"_

_The turbaned professor snarled, and his black robes swirled and swished with him as he danced around the frantic strikes of Bob's club. Debris and dust flew through the air. The acrid smell of the troll, so like an open sewer in the middle of summer, burned Harry's nasal passages while he struggled against the cords restricting his arms and straining his shoulders. He could not move. Some force held him glued to the floor. Bob roared and swung for Quirrell again. The crazed thief snapped his wand, and a bolt of crackling burgundy sped toward the beast. Harry's mouth tasted of blood and bile._

"_Get away, Bob!" the boy screamed. "Run! I'm fine! Run!"_

_Grey mist obscured the combatants, and two heavy, smacking thuds echoed across the chamber. The stench intensified, and Harry dry heaved. He dared not look up. That horrible voice was laughing. Cackling in unholy delight at the creature's violent demise. _

"_Look, Potter!" it cried gleefully. "You're next, and then your mudblood sister, her mother, and the Doctor, too."_

_The hiss built until it was all he could hear. His vision filled with green. Someone screamed, but the sound seemed muted beneath the hiss. _

"_Harry!"_

_Quirrell's head turned while the rest of his body remained facing forward, and scarlet eyes pinned him. His chest ached, and he realised he couldn't breathe. The professor's arm moved slowly, like through water, and aimed the wand at him. Its tip glowed emerald. _

"Harry!"

The boy sat up, and the agonised scream cut off. He could hear a faint buzzing in his ears, and familiar blurs moved nearby. His throat hurt, and the air tasted of petrichor. The cotton of his pyjamas stuck coolly to his back and chest, where his heart beat frantically against his ribs. The nearest blur offered him a hand, and Harry gratefully took his glasses.

Rose came into focus. Faint lavender shadows darkened the skin under her hazel green eyes, and a line puckered her brow. Her long, auburn-dyed hair stuck up out of the high, messy bun she wore for bed. A few strands clung to her right cheek over pink pillow marks.

"All right?" she whispered.

She moved her hand, and Harry belatedly realised she had been stroking his sweaty hair. He nodded wearily and slumped back against his pillows.

"Another nightmare?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Bob, again."

He scooted to the other side of his bed and stripped his damp shirt off once he'd moved from the damp spot of perspiration. He pulled the blankets pulled up to his chin, and a faint plop denoted the garment's fall to the floor. His mum rolled her eyes and smiled, but the wrinkle in her brow did not straighten.

"I changed your nappies, you know," she hummed. "No need for embarrassment."

"I'm just cold," Harry defended.

The bed shifted and dipped slightly as Rose settled over the covers beside her son, who tiredly squirmed further away to make more room. Her fingers returned to carding through his mussed hair, and Harry closed his eyes at the comforting sensation.

"What time is it?" he asked after a while. "Don't we have to go into the Ministry in the morning?"

Rose's fingernails lightly scratched his scalp, and Harry felt himself relaxing by inches, starting from the head down. He breathed deeply to wash the memory of the stink out of his nose. It still smelled like magic, but his mum's presence added a hint of apple to the air. His heart slowed.

"It's not quite four," she hummed. "I wanted to get up early, though, so don't feel too bad. I have a couple things to wrap up for Torchwood before we see Madam Bones."

"You _hate_ mornings," the boy muttered. "I'm fine. You should go back to bed, Mum."

"Nah," she smiled.

She changed the pattern of her movements to trace circles over his crown. Harry yawned widely.

"Let me mother you while you're still small enough for me to make you enjoy it."

Soon enough, the boy's breathing evened out into quiet, shallow snores. Rose remained, however, stroking his hair and staring into his face, until sunshine peeked around the edges of his curtains on the opposite side of the room.

…

At a much more reasonable hour later that morning, Harry descended the stairs in his Wizarding best. He finished knotting his silk tie as he entered the kitchen. His dad sat on the countertop next to Jenny, who held half of a gigantic bacon, egg and cheddar sandwich. Her feet kicked back and forth several feet off the ground, and the Doctor's trainers mimicked hers with less clearance. He grinned when his son entered, and a plate laden with the other half of the monstrous breakfast sailed through the air into Harry's hands.

"Good morning!" the Doctor sang. "I've got tea on, too, if you want some."

"Morning," the boy said after swallowing his first mouthful. "Not coming with us, then?"

"Of course he isn't," Jenny declared imperiously. "Daddy and I are going to go decorate our Hogwarts flat, and then we're going to visit Mr Hagrid."

Harry smiled and sighed dramatically.

"I'm going to miss the good old days when I got to spend all year away from you…"

The little girl gave him a furious glare, and he held up his hands in supplication.

"You know I'm joking," he quickly amended. "I hope you have fun. Hagrid's got some orphan unicorn foals around somewhere, though I never got to see them. If you ask nicely, I'm sure he'll show them to you."

The Doctor tapped his wristwatch and slid off the counter to accept his son's empty plate. Under his direction, it hopped into the washer with a gentle _clink_ beside a tidy row of its fellows.

"Your mum's in the sitting room," he said. "Do you have your panic button?"

"Of course," Harry nodded and flashed the ring on his right hand. "Haven't taken it off since, you know."

His father's dark brows rose at the boy's grimace.

"It's not that I thought you'd forget," he added gently. "It's just knee-jerk after we summoned your portkey back, and it showed up at the safe house without you attached to it. Parental redundancy."

"I know, Dad."

The Doctor loped across the kitchen to ruffle Harry's carefully smoothed hair, which spawned a complaint and a brief tousle.

"Jemmy, it's time to go!"

With his mother's call serving as a convenient excuse, the boy extricated himself from his father's grip and ran from the kitchen. A moment later, a _swoosh_ and the smell of smoke denoted their departure.

…

Rose stepped first from one of the many gilded fireplaces lining the Ministry's atrium with a flurry of her midnight blue coattails and a swirl of smoke clinging stubbornly to the hem of her ankle-length skirt. Harry jogged out of the hearth after her to look about in interest. Though he had never accompanied his parents to the ministry, he imagined it to be similar to his grandfather's offices. Like all wizardspace he'd explored thus far, however, magic and vintage sensibilities of its occupants prevented too close a comparison.

Witches and wizards milled en masse through the long room, while overhead, the peacock-blue ceiling swam with shifting runes in shimmering gold like the scrolling ads across the Jumbotrons on Piccadilly Circus. Their robes – some fitted, some flowing, and in all colours and patterns imaginable – made the long hall look crowded. Their blurred reflections flashed across black tiles and polished ebony planks panelling the walls and the highly polished floor, furthering the illusion. Rose put a hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him deftly past a bubbling fountain that featured a golden wizard, witch, centaur, goblin and house elf. The boy briefly wondered what the Doctor's Goblin friends thought of the vacantly adoring expression depicted on their representation's face. Even the witch looked admiringly to the wizard beside her, who, positioned as he was on his own pedestal in the shimmering water, loomed unrealistically tall over the others so as to seem their benevolent leader.

"Hello Mrs Smith. What can I do for you, today?"

Harry turned his head and found himself positioned in front of a security desk occupied by a poorly-shaven, peacock-blue clad guard and a brass scale fitted over an instrument which looked quite a lot like a telegraph ticker.

"Good morning, Eric. I'm here to sign my exit documents, and I thought I'd give my Harry a tour," Rose said smoothly with a charming smile for the watchwizard.

Eric grinned as two silver badges appeared on the desk's edge, which he picked up to read the neat embossed print.

"Let's see here… 'Mrs Rose Smith – Tedious Paper Work and Family Tour' and 'Harry-'"

Eric's brows furrowed, and he squinted up at the boy in question.

Harry smiled mildly at him and offered his wand for weighing, having had the process explained to him days beforehand.

"Er- Aw, Mrs Smith," the watchwizard complained as he placed the holly wand in the scale's velvet-lined trough after an extended stare. "You should have told me ahead of time you were bringing _Harry Potter_ in. I mean, the Minister would have wanted to send a personal tour guide or somethin'."

"I'm sorry," Rose frowned. "I really hadn't thought about it, but if you'll send a note off to let him know, I'm sure I can take Harry by his office before I go."

"Thank you, Ma'am," he breathed. "He's always on me about announcing the important visitors. Here we are, young man, 'Harry Potter – Tourist'."

The boy accepted the badge along with a slip of paper with his wand's information on it, and with Eric's wave of approval, the two returned to the morning traffic headed toward the gleaming lifts lining the rear of the atrium. However, just steps away from the crowded grates, Rose took a sharp left to lead the way through a pair of unobtrusive doors, where they emerged before a spiralling, wrought iron staircase. In the narrow shaft of space allotted for the stairs, only a few eerie globes of bluish light lit kept them from utter darkness as they began their ascent. With each step, the flighty nerves in Harry's gut intensified uncomfortably until he felt ill whenever he looked at the perfect spiralling twist stretching up above them.

"Are you sure you're O.K. with this, Jemmy?"

Rose's usually teasing voice sounded gentle and quiet in the echoing stairwell, and Harry expelled a long sigh.

"Yeah," he finally muttered. "It's the right thing to do, whether he sold them out or not."

He felt her fingers smooth his hair (save the cowlick at the top of his crown) back into its tidy, pomaded order, and he felt immediately better when he caught her proud smile.

"You're such a great kid," she approved. "I know this is completely bonkers, but it'll all work out."

"I know."

As she had indicated to Eric the watchwizard, Rose led her son from the Level 2 landing through another innocuous door onto another blandly wallpapered corridor. They passed the lifts, out of which flowed a number of purple paper airplanes and several wizards in business-casual or scarlet robes. Harry paused at his mother's direction to let them rush off to their offices.

"Inter-office memos," she explained. "They tried miniature owls for a while but they quickly got sick of the mess. Apparently, even vanishing charms can get tedious."

Harry found it hard to picture Ministry personnel dodging droppings, let alone having to clean them up.

"I can imagine," he laughed.

The pair followed the paper squadron through an archway of twisting iron and glass into a foyer resplendent in yet more azure. A pretty witch with a short, angular black bob and a blunt fringe sat behind a rounded, horseshoe desk trimmed in gold at its centre. Music hummed from an old 1930s wireless behind her, and a teetering stack of mixed paper and heavier parchment sat by her left elbow. Her right hand dashed across the sheet in front of her, and when she reached its end, a blotter jumped from the head of the desk to rapidly dry the document. Another page quickly sailed from the waiting queue to replace it as soon at it flitted to the outbox on her right.

Harry had never seen hand-written paperwork look so efficient.

"Good morning June," Rose called as they reached her desk.

The brunette looked up in surprise, and Harry spotted an ink smudge on her right cheek.

"Hello Rose! Oh- And Jamie, right?" the pretty brunette grinned. "What're you doing here? I thought you and John were leaving us for professorships, lucky girl. You're going to miss Mr Malfoy coming in and raising a fuss."

She jabbed her wand at the stack on her desk, and the papers immediately stopped their anxious teetering. Another flick sent the quill to its holder, and the blotter started a quick jig over her work to prevent any accidental smudges during the interim.

"Well, he deserved to be raided," Rose smirked. "The man had a veritable arsenal of Non-Magical killing trinkets just in his drawing room. But I thought Arthur and Dawlish were going to handle that report."

June snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Yes, but that leaves their annual filing to me. Course, they have me going through the bulk of everyone else's too. Not that anyone has time to do it or anything," June said wryly. "You know, if they actually filed their paperwork correctly in the first place, these annual clean-ups wouldn't take so long."

The redhead hummed sympathetically.

"Sorry it's such a chore. The boys are completely hopeless, aren't they?"

"You know it," June sighed. "I'd tell them to piss off if Scrimgeor wouldn't sack me, but there you go. Anyway, what are you doing here, now that I'm done complaining?"

Her eyes flicked to the young wizard shifting somewhat anxiously at his mother's side.

"Just exit paperwork," Rose said flippantly. "Do you think the Director has a minute for me? She also wanted to see my son about that nasty business the end of last year."

"Oh-" she grimaced. "That 'incident' none of us are supposed to talk about, you mean?"

She twisted and rolled her wooden chair around to the stretch of desk on her right side, where a little grid of purple and grey glass marbles lay like a panel set into its surface. Beneath each orb, a small brass plate assigned its owner's name. She poked the marble labelled _Amelia Bones_ with the tip of her wand, and the bell above the gilt double doors directly behind her rang obligingly.

"I always have to double-check," June clarified at Harry's raised brow. "The indicators can be a little finicky. She's in her office, and her schedule's open this morning aside from filing. Go on in."

"Thanks, love," Rose hummed. "I'll floo you for drinks sometime."

"You'd better!"

The doors swung open before Rose could touch it. A woman with iron-grey hair, a shining monocle, and severely straight-backed posture waited for them before a wall of windows whose wood-framed panes looked out onto row upon row of Ministry Law Enforcement workers, Aurors and Hit Wizards swarming around hexagonal cubicles as they went about their work. Little purple paper airplanes flew overhead, and sheaves of parchment sailed between file boxes and sorters. Harry thought it would have closely resembled a beehive's cross-section had the wizards' robes been yellow.

"Good morning, Mrs Smith," the woman greeted. "Come to say your goodbyes before your resignation finalises tomorrow, or in response to my previous request?"

She paused as she evaluated her former employee's escort.

"And who is this?"

Harry stepped forward and extended a hand to the intimidating director.

"Harry Potter-Smith, Ma'am," he smiled. "I don't think we had the pleasure of meeting at the end of term."

Her severe brows rose as she shook his hand.

"Amelia Bones, and it's a pleasure, indeed. You were still bed-bound when I interviewed Madam Pomfrey," she thrummed. "You're quite a lot handsomer without the layer of filth."

Rose grinned and Harry flushed a bit around the ears as they took the plush chairs before the broad mahogany desk, and Amelia retook her high-backed chair behind it.

"You're right on both counts," Rose supplied to answer her prior query. "Also, I am going to miss you."

"Not as much as you'll enjoy Hogwarts, I'm sure," Amelia scoffed. "You can't tell me Muggle Artefacts wasn't boring as bricks down, and that's not even taking into consideration your general occupation. It's insulting, making you do paperwork. Arthur's an excellent man and a good Wizard, but he'd be the first to say he's out of his depth when it comes to actually working with non-magicals. What's-his-name ought to have been put out on his ear ages ago, and you should have been helping to lead the department within a month of your starting. Just because you're lacking in the spell-casting area-"

Throughout her rant, the witch directed her desk to tidy itself and conducted a large stack of manila envelopes into the floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets lining the grimily papered wall to their left. Rose watched in amusement and laughed softly when she finished.

"That right there is why it wasn't offered," she said plainly. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn't matter, so they can all just shove off while I teach their kids."

Amelia smirked as a plum-coloured file folder walked across the desk to stop at Rose's place. She took the quill the older woman offered and started going through the motions while the director returned her attention to Harry. She stared at him for several moments, and Harry stared evenly back.

Rose's quill scratched across the parchment. The grandfather clock beside the door ticked loudly, and although the sound of the working law enforcement personnel remained locked beyond the wall of windows, Harry could hear the lobby wireless humming cheery jazz.

"So, did your mum explain why I wanted to see you, Mr Potter-Smith?" Amelia finally asked.

"She said the Wizengamot disapproved the appeal to try Professor Dumbledore for impeding an ongoing investigation, child endangerment and gross negligence, and that everything was sent to the school board," he said slowly. "But Dad said you wanted to get my testimony for the record, just in case something comes up later."

"That's mostly correct," the grey-haired woman nodded. "I actually wanted your permission to take a copy of your memories. Since Saint Mungo's confirmed the ashes from the corridor as Quirrell's, we need to verify what happened."

Harry's breath hissed through his teeth, and Amelia's expression softened as she examined his blanched face.

The quill stopped its rustling trek.

"You're not in trouble," she added. "The other children already testified as to what happened, and it's clearly self-defence, regardless of what happened. You're the only one aside from him who was there through the entire experience. I thought it might be easier than talking about it."

"I-"

The boy paused at the touch of his mother's hand on his knee.

"Amelia, you will need to seal these memories away once you've finished your report," Rose whispered. "You know how people will react."

Amelia's monocled eye narrowed. A flick of her wand darkened the glass behind her, and a few more swishes spun a hazy blue field over the remaining walls and door before it hummed and disappeared from view. Harry stared around in amazement, and Rose relaxed in her seat.

"Privacy wards. Listening charms won't work through it, and to them it looks like we're laughing about something," Director Bones explained while she drew the letter out of its sheath. "Now, I thought you and the Doctor _theorised_ it was the Dark Lord, not that it _was._"

She spoke the words in clipped, accusing tones while her gaze shifted to Mrs Smith.

"We hypothesised, but we were very confident in our hypothesis long before that night," Rose firmly clarified. "I didn't lie to you when we brought you our original concerns. Who else would have the sort of power to bypass Gringotts' security? Possessions do warp the possessor's features, and red eyes aren't uncommon in those rare scenarios according to the records we have, but the kids' descriptions are a clear match, as is what Harry said about their confrontation."

The clock's rhythmic _tick-tock _counted a long pause while Amelia shrewdly evaluated both mother and son.

"Do you give your permission?" she finally grunted.

Harry caught his mother's eye and sighed when she didn't answer.

"Yes," he agreed.

Rose nodded.

"Right," the witch smiled wryly, and a wand appeared in her hand with a flick of her wrist. "This won't hurt, young man. Just focus on that evening, starting from when you were taken from the infirmary."

The child stiffened when the cool tip of Amelia's wand made contact with the centre of his forehead, and his eyes closed against the disturbing image while he obligingly pulled the memory from his deep storage, where he diligently put it every morning.

Although he was not a true Time Lord (despite his Time-Lordliness, as his dad put it) and therefore remained incapable of limitless and near-perfect memory, the Doctor held no compunctions in providing his kids with the closest comparison he could conceive: the method of loci, better known as the Mind Palace.

His took the shape of a laptop.

As the taste of candyfloss filled his mouth and a peculiar coolness spread across his forehead, he imagined the device unfolding. The black screen blinked on much faster than his iBook at home would have, and the password prompt flashed away with a few taps of his fingertips against the keyboard. He drilled into his Media folder, past the icons representing his memories and dreams, and into a folder labelled _Bob_. A double-click opened it, and a quick scroll brought him to the film-reel representing the last night they went through the trapdoor.

Too fast for a real computer, his media player loaded the video, and he carefully pulled his mental self away from the computer screen to allow Amelia, who saw naught but his scrunched face, to copy the memory. He blinked as shimmering silver strands overtook the screen, and his real eyes opened.

Bright, diaphanous threads rapidly flew from his temple to spin around to the end of the witch's wand until it looked like a broken spider's web draped over the wood. Amelia stared in surprise.

"I take it you're an occlumens, then? Most take a few minutes at least to give me this much," she mused while guiding the strands into a phial. "I only just said the spell. It's unusual to have quite that much control at your age."

"That's what Professor Snape says," Harry shrugged. "Dad's a good tutor, though. I'm pretty sure he could teach anyone anything given enough time."

Rose snorted and returned to her paperwork. The incredulous Madam Bones had no answer for the boy, so she busied herself by laying charms Harry couldn't decipher aside from their flavours while he watched in interest. When she deemed the phial secure enough, she pressed her thumb against the handle for her top right desk drawer. Yet more spells opened a concealed compartment. Ozone tinged with ginger and chillies – Harry was strongly reminded of Thai food – joined the cocktail while she finished her protections. But as the drawer closed, the flavour and smell of copper made him frown.

"Are you bleeding?"

Amelia blinked. Harry frowned between them. The women shared a confused look and burst suddenly into uproarious laughter. The soon-to-be-twelve-year-old's expression slipped from concern (during and immediately following his question) to bemusement, followed by mortification so quickly Rose worried his face may not return to its normal shade.

"N-n-no!"

His voice squeaked horribly.

"I just- I thought- I smelled copper so I thought you might have cut yourself on something."

He looked on miserably while the women slowly controlled their mirth.

"It's a blood-based lock, but quite a bit stronger than the ones on your average trunk," she explained with a cool, shark-like grin. "Anyone who tries to get into this drawer who isn't me will find themselves glued to the surface with few options for escape, save amputation."

Harry glanced at his mother and chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Are there other ways of identifying a person?" he asked after a moment's contemplation. "Non-magicals have DNA, fingerprints, retinal scanners, and facial identification, so I wondered at the differences."

Madam Bones reclined a little in her seat, crossed her arms, and pursed her lips in thought.

"Well, we've established the use of blood. Saint Mungo's always takes a sample whenever someone checks in, and they've got both spells and potions to give them the information they need when it comes to checking against their records. You can't fool blood, even with a polyjuice potion. That only rearranges your pieces temporarily, but you'll always revert because everything that makes you what you are remains in your veins," she explained. "There's also spell identification using _Prior Incantanto_. Cast on a wand, it'll show the last several spells beginning with the most recent. Wands are also registered with a specific wizard, so that's a simple method of identification, too."

"Huh," Harry frowned. "Which did they use to put Sirius Black in Azkaban?"

Amelia's dark grey brows drew together in a severe line.

"Crouch ran things to the letter, even during war-time," she murmured sombrely. "He was determined to make it so those who helped the Dark Lord stayed out of the game. There were more lifetime sentences and veil-walks those days than ever before or since. Even so, there would have been riots if the sentencing didn't rely on incontrovertible proof. A lot of people no one expected turned out to be Death Eaters or their accomplices. I imagine he had the arresting Aurors use every method in their arsenal to build his case, but the Spell Reversal Effect would have been the most important evidence for his trial in addition to the arresting Aurors' testimony."

Although Harry had broached the subject differently than they originally planned, this was the topic he and his mother actually wanted to discuss with the Director of Magical Law Enforcement. Rose did not waste the opportunity.

"Sorry," she said on cue. "But Sirius Black wasn't tried."

"Of course he was," Madam Bones dismissed automatically. "I know Wizarding Britain's social and civil policies are a bit behind the Queen's muggle government, but we do hold ourselves to some standards."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Rose took the denial in stride.

"I'm sorry, Amelia," she countered, "But when the Doctor retrieved Harry's record, he said he also checked Sirius Black's file in the public archives to make sure our custody couldn't be challenged by any of his relatives. I'm sure you understand, considering the Black Family's reputation. Anyway, it only had his booking form for Azkaban and a note from his sentencing, declared on November 2nd. We even submitted a formal request for the rest of his records to see the ruling regarding how Harry's guardianship was to be handled-"

The redhead fished in her pocket and withdrew a heavy purple envelope. She passed it to Madam Bones, who quickly withdrew the letter and sat back to read with narrowed eyes.

_Dear Mr and Mrs Smith, _

_Thank you for your inquiry. After careful review of the case files, we regret to inform you that your request for the criminal records of Sirius Orion Black has been denied based on a lack of documentation showing Legal Necessity in accordance to Ministry Information Access regulations. However, in light of your concern as dutiful parents under unique circumstances, I was given permission to provide you with the following:_

_Under Section 5, Subsection A6 of the __Martial Order, Law and Justice Act__ passed 20 April 1996, any person charged with treason against Magical Britain may be sentenced given sufficient evidence to prove the defendant's guilt beyond reasonable doubt. Suffice to say, the testimony and physical evidence provided fulfilled these requirements, which led to his conviction for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggles and as an accessory in the murder of James and Lily Potter. You may feel confident in informing young Mr Potter that justice prevailed in this case, overall. _

_Further, the severity of Mr Black's crimes and subsequent conviction invalidated any potential guardianship requests by his relations. If you have observed all the laws and customs of the muggle government in obtaining Mr Potter's custody, you may be rest assured that your claim is both legal and valid. If for any reason someone were to challenge your custody through the Ministry, we would inform you in accordance to your rights as lawful magical guardians wizarding child. _

_The involvement of our citizenry is of utmost importance to the success of our government, and so we truly appreciate your interest in this matter. Please relay our sympathies to Mr Potter, again, and thank you for your care toward Wizarding Britain's most illustrious hero._

_Sincerely,_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_Senior Undersecretary_

_Office of the Minister for Magic_

Harry and Rose watched the woman's severely held expression. Her scowl deepened, and her grip on the letter tightened significantly.

"I never received this request," she said carefully. "Which concerns me almost as much as the phrasing in the letter itself."

"What's wrong?" Rose asked with a thoughtful frown. "I mean, we thought it was odd response, but we corroborated the law ourselves after we received the letter. John just assumed it was the usual red tape."

Amelia took up a fountain pen and hummed sceptically.

"First off, official procedure dictates this sort of thing would be handled by one of our junior Aurors, given my approval, after which you'd receive an answer through your solicitor, if you've one on retainer," she explained in a wry, business-like manner. "Between you and me, Rose, Umbridge may be a hag and a racist, but she's a stickler for regulation if nothing else. She's the type to make a new law to accommodate her rather than bend the rules when there are witnesses about."

The director cancelled the sticking charm on her monocle with an impatient twitch of her wand and carefully tucked it into the breast pocket of her robes. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs to examine the mother and son across from her critically. She balanced the notepad on her knee and swung the pen idly back and forth by its end.

"I may not be a Slytherin like your clever boy, there," she said with a sly look at Harry. "But I'm not gullible, either. You could have given this to me anytime, so what is it you really want?"

The redhead had the grace to look apologetic and nodded to her son, who squared his slim shoulders to look the Director in the eye.

"I want to speak to my godfather," he said quietly. "Whatever my birth parents died for still isn't over, or I wouldn't have been involved in what happened this spring. He would have had to been there if he was my mother and father's secret keeper, so he probably saw what happened. I wanted to read the court transcripts, but since this Umbridge person's blocking us, it looks like there's more going on, and I'd prefer to hear it from him. So many other things were mismanaged when I was little…"

He sighed and looked down at his folded hands.

"I need to know the truth. Everything in _my_ file's wrong, and yet everyone just accepts everything they've been told about my family as gospel. I haven't actually seen the evidence myself, so for all I know, he could even be innocent."

Madam Bones considered Harry's drawn, serious features for a long while before she dropped her face into her hands and rest her elbows on the desk.

"You two make my life so hard," she complained. "First that mess with Dumbledore, now this. I'm _still_ up to my ears in paperwork for that debacle – A miracle considering half of it got irreversibly 'lost' in someone's gold-lined pockets – And now you want me to pull the most hated man in Wizarding Britain out of the hole we threw them in like we've got a sense of humanity or something."

Rose laughed lightly and shrugged with an impish grin on her face. Harry relaxed at her side.

"I love you too, 'Melia."

"Shut it," Bones commanded. "You're not allowed to look so happy when you're giving me actual work to do."

"Thank you," Rose sang as she stood. "I'm really glad you're here, or this country would be a complete loss."

Madam Bones waved her wand to dispel the privacy wards and smirked.

"In all seriousness, thank _you_," she whispered. "Now I've a legitimate reason to give all this filing to someone else and do some actual Law Enforcement for once. I'll keep you posted."

The door swung open again, and Rose strolled out of the office with a smile on her lips with Harry on her heels. Their direct approach hadn't succeeded, and she and the Doctor may not have accomplished much as assistants in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and Office of Records, respectively, but they had definitely made some valuable friends. A few strides and a lift-ride later, she and Harry crossed the Atrium to the floos, and in a flash of emerald flames, spun away from London.


	2. Visitors, Fish Fingers and Custard

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Thanks for your comments, faves, and follows thus far. I love you all.

* * *

Chapter Two: Visitors, Fish Fingers and Custard

* * *

**13 July 2013**

"Tyler!"

Harry twisted and hopped nimbly over the tangle of players sprawled across the grass. He rushed to meet Swami's wall-pass and take the ball up the field, managing to avoid several tackles. With a scissor kick, he launched the ball just past the goalkeeper's outstretched hands and into the netting behind him with a satisfying _pfhwop! _

The sidelines erupted with the cries of parents, friends and spectators. Harry smiled as his teammates, boys he counted among close acquaintances from his time at Homefield Prep or around the neighbourhood, enveloped him in excited shouts, smacks on the back, and a few manly hugs. He allowed them to jostle him toward the front of their sweaty, grass-stained number for the photos, and a few moments later he found himself dragged away from the main group by his grandparents.

"Bang-up job, mate!" Pete exclaimed with a tight hug about his shoulders. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah," Harry grinned.

His heart still raced from the exertion, but his breathing had evened out already. Flying sprints for Quidditch practice and performing acrobatics in midair had that effect for ground-bound sport. His grandfather ruffled his sweaty, porcupine hair, and several over-bright camera bulbs went off to paint spots across his vision. Harry kept the smile fixed to his face as his grandmother ran forward with a towel and a water bottle in hand. She swept him up next to plant a loud kiss on his cheek and give him a hug marked by the smell of her perfume – Chanel No. 5 – and the slight stiffness of her cream-coloured sundress.

"Good job, darling!" she enthused, before leaning closer to his ear under the pretence of draping the towel over his shoulders. "I'm so glad you asked us to come. Sorry about the paparazzi."

"I'm glad you did," he said softly. "And don't worry about the press. I know Grandpa Pete's up for re-election. We need someone like him to keep us up-to-speed with the rest of the world."

She smiled at him adoringly and the cameras flashed again. Harry gave her a looser hug about the waist and settled in to wait out the media swarm. Jackie and Harry mostly stood there looking smart while the news reporter asked his granddad questions about inane topics that had nothing to do with his platform. Jackie, meanwhile, doted on her grandson in quiet asides.

"How long are you home from school?" she asked as she handed Harry a banana ice cream with pralines on top.

The boy happily traded his half-drained water bottle for the treat and shrugged.

"'Till September first, though that sort of depends on if I hear back from my schoolmates. We were thinking about doing a few outings either in London or to the beach, maybe."

"Well, just as long as we get to spend some proper time together," the blonde allowed. "Last summer it was like I hardly got to see you, and as much fun as I had on my cruise, Christmas just wasn't the same without you."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I missed you, too. So how's Uncle Tony? I haven't seen him around."

A few moments later, he wished he hadn't asked.

Uncle Tony, Rose's little brother, had passed adolescence and was quickly making his way to adulthood, but his mother did not seem satisfied with the decisions he was making.

"That son of mine finished his A-levels just fine, made spectacular marks, really, but I've not seen a hint of him trying to get into Uni anywhere. What's the point of all that if he's not even going to try? He's not looking for a job, either! He just sits at home all day playing video games and moping about. He doesn't have any interest in girlfriends-"

Harry, who really liked his uncle-cum-pseudo-sibling, quickly tuned her out. He fell into mechanical nods whenever she paused along with the occasional sympathetic smile, and he kept up the pretence of attention and happiness until his grandparents deposited him back home. After he'd waved goodbye and kissed his gran twice, Harry shut the door and fell gratefully into the hammock pitched across the corner of the sitting room without even bothering to take off his stained, sweaty footie kit.

It was in this position the Doctor and Rose discovered their son when they returned home later that afternoon. The parents smiled to one another in the foyer, and the Doctor quietly closed the door behind them while his wife went to wake the sleeping boy. He lay sprawled with one foot and the opposite arm hanging off odd sides of the woven, tasselled hammock. His neck bent at an awkward angle against the large, round cushion that may once have pillowed both shoulders and head, but had slid to support only the boy's crown. Harry's dark, perpetually mussed hair partially covered his eyes, and the rest stuck up all around his face, where a muddy smear darkened his left cheek.

"You've gotten dirt all over my hammock," Rose chided softly as she brushed the fringe off his brow.

Harry woke with a start and sat up so quickly he nearly head-butted her. She laughed and ducked out the way while her son tangled with the many throws and pillows lining her favourite reading spot. The hammock swung precariously, but eventually, Harry managed to get all his limbs positioned in some sense of order.

"Took a bit of a kip?"

"Yeah," he yawned.

His head felt fuzzy.

"It was a good game. I just got so tired when I got home."

"You don't make it sound like it was any good," the Doctor commented as he entered the parlour with an odd contraption in hand.

"Still waking up," Harry yawned and rubbed his eyes. "What's that?"

"Timey-wimey detector. It goes 'bing!' and it can boil an egg at thirty paces."

The shoebox-sized device, which looked like an amalgamation of several other appliances sacrificed for the Doctor's needs, obligingly went _bing!_ Harry could identify an alarm clock, the receiver of an old-fashioned rotary phone, a torch, and a steam pressure gage.

"O.K. What is it _supposed_ to do, though?"

"It's a more precise alarm for time-space flux. Screwdriver says we've got anomalies, but it's not fast enough to analyse what they are before they're gone–"

He waved the contraption.

"This'll help us pinpoint when it happens around us when we're not causing it."

"We've been hiring post owls all week to try and send you mail," Rose cut in by way of explanation. "We've even tried mailing something addressed to ourselves but are written to 'Harry Potter, Harry Potter-Tyler, Harry Tyler,' and 'Harry Smith.' None of them are getting to you, but the letters are registering as delivered, so they've got to be going somewhere once they get to our address."

Harry perked up immediately.

"So you think my friends _have_ been sending me letters? I've just not gotten them?"

The Doctor grinned.

"Exactly."

"I've got to floo-call Neville!"

Rose and the Doctor smiled after their son as he leapt from the hammock and rushed to the empty fireplace. A quick _incendio_ and a healthy sprinkle of floo powder later, Harry connected with Longbottom Manor, and Dippy, the Longbottom head house elf, peered down at him as he looked out of the fire.

"Young Master Harry!" she squeaked. "Dippy is very glad to see you, Sir! Little Master Neville is very sad Young Master Harry hasn't written back to him."

"That's what I was flooing for, Dippy. Is Neville free? Can I talk to him?"

Dippy nodded and her floppy, bat-like ears waggled happily.

"Dippy is very pleased to help," she said, but a shy smile came over her face.

"Dippy is wondering, before I get Little Master, is Little Miss Jenny well? Dippy has not had the opportunity to call, and felt it unseemly to contact Master Harry if he was not expecting it."

"Of course you can come over!" Harry quickly assured her. "My sister's mad about you. She's staying at a friend's house until tomorrow, though, so why don't you have Neville floo me again, then, to ask when?"

"Dippy would like that very much!" the little elf cried. "Dippy will fetch Little Master, now."

Harry barely waited after the elf's head disappeared from view before Neville skid around the corner of the drawing room and raced to plop to his belly on the other side of the connection. Harry appreciated the gesture, since he didn't have to crane his neck so badly to see him.

"Hi Neville!" he grinned.

"Harry!" the boy cried, beaming. "I got worried when you didn't respond to any of my letters. I even thought to try the Bluetooth thing, but I can't find it. Dippy can't either."

"Mine's missing, too. I think we may have left them in the room or something. Anyway, Something's messing with my mail. Dad's working on it, but never mind that. How are you?"

"Good. Just bored. Why didn't you floo earlier?"

Harry felt his ears go hot and he coughed around a mouthful of ash when he tried to shrug.

"Well, I didn't know if you'd want to since-" he sighed and looked at the undone button at Neville's collar. "You know, almost getting you and Hermione killed and all that. I sort of thought you reconsidered since it didn't seem like you were answering my letters."

Neville smiled in easy understanding, and Harry felt doubly grateful to have the boy as his friend.

"Listen, I told my gran your birthday's just after mine, and she was wondering if you'd like to celebrate together."

"Sure," Harry beamed. "What'd you want to do?"

Neville's face fell just a little.

"Well, in the morning, I usually go to see my parents at Saint Mungo's. Then we have a quiet luncheon at home with my great-aunt and uncle."

Harry's face slid into thoughtfulness, and Neville grimaced apologetically.

"It's probably a bit boring," he muttered to fill the silence. "Never mind. I'll ask if maybe we could get together after or something."

The dark-haired boy shook his head and smiled reassuringly.

"No, I'd love to come, if you don' think your gran'll mind me meeting your parents, too. Your mum's my godmother, after all. I was just wondering if there's something we could bring."

The Gryffindor smiled appreciatively.

"She'd love that, but don't worry about bringing anything. It's not like…" he grimaced. "Anyway, what about the lunch thing?"

"Why don't you come over? We could have lunch here with both our families, and you can spend the night. Mum and Dad said they'd take me on an overnight for the thirty-first in London, and then do our school shopping the morning after. You could floo back home from there, or your gran could meet us."

The boys lay there plotting for several minutes more, and Harry jerked his head from the fireplace with the promise Neville would call back in a few hours to let him know his grandmother's decision. After his hasty retreat from the floo connection, the messy-haired boy took a minute to lie dizzily on the hearth while his inner ear regained its equilibrium. Excitement bubbled through his system.

It wasn't as though his neighbourhood were devoid of kids his age. He still had mates from his primary school he could spend time with, but theirs wasn't the company he craved. As nice as the Homefield blokes were, he couldn't consider them any closer than acquaintances. Even the boys he played with earlier that day would not have phoned him at all if Danny Brookes hadn't concussed himself in a misguided attempt to do an ollie off a flight of stairs. The kids around Sutton, though friendly, had always thought him a bit weird.

It was why he loved Hogwarts so much. He never had to pretend to be 'normal.' For the first time, he had friends who knew and appreciated his magical ability in addition to his personality; however, the conclusion of the previous year and the subsequent silence convinced him, until his parents had given him reason to believe otherwise, his school friends had wilfully forgotten about him.

Hermione had the perfect reason not to write. Her mum and dad had taken her to visit France for the first part of the summer Holidays. He hadn't really expected to hear much from her until she came back, but to hear nothing at all made him wonder. She'd promised to send him postcards, and he'd written three times already.

Draco, he understood since the beginning of the holidays, might not write at all dependent on how his father (who remained diametrically opposed to everything Harry Potter represented) took the news of their friendship. Daphne and Neville, on the other hand, had no excuse, Harry thought, unless they'd come to their senses and decided being friends with him wasn't worth the mortal danger.

A much bigger part of him than he liked to admit was selfish enough to hope they wouldn't reach that conclusion, even if the sensible portion of his brain had already reassured him it was for the best. So, after spending near a month convincing himself of his abandonment, his brief floo call with Neville was enough to make him giddy.

"Mum!" he shouted from the floor.

"I'm just in the kitchen, not in Antarctica," she called back. "What is it?"

"Is your offer to do a birthday thing in London still on the table?"

Rose snorted half a laugh.

"What's he think?" the Doctor muttered indignantly from his mother's general direction. "That we were just joking? That'd be mean."

"Of course, sweetheart. Is Neville coming?"

Harry, finally over his vertigo, sat up and trotted into the kitchen to happily accept the fish finger sandwich his dad pressed into his hands. He hopped up onto a barstool and grinned.

"He's asking his gran about it," he continued cheerily. "Would it be all right if we visited his mum and dad with him first, though, if she says it's all right?"

"Of course," the Doctor warmly agreed. "It's not easy to love a sick person. I'm sure Alice Longbottom would have been wonderful to you if she had ever gotten the chance, so I think it's fitting to share that with him, so long as they don't feel it's an intrusion."

Rose took the remaining fish finger sandwich only to wrinkle her nose in disgust when the Doctor poured half a carton of custard into a bowl and proceeded to dip his sandwich in it.

"That's revolting," Harry complained, staring at his father with morbid interest.

"Absolutely," Rose groaned.

"Fantastic," the Doctor disagreed. "I think the other me must have regenerated. I've been having odd cravings lately. It took me forever to figure it out, though. I think I fried up six different things before I settled on this."

"Well, I hope it stops soon. That's just foul-looking."

"Oi, don't knock it until you try!" he insisted.

"Impossible," his wife grumbled. "Anyway, on the subject of godparents, do you want to hear how far we've gotten with Sirius Black's case?"

Harry frowned thoughtfully around his sandwich.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "If he's not supposed to be there, we need to get him out. If he is, then he has to know something about the prophecy, or at least something about Voldemort that you and Torchwood could get out of him."

"Our feelings exactly," the Doctor agreed. "So far, we're fairly sure Umbridge is following orders to keep an ongoing cover-up alive to protect older hands at the Ministry. We're leaning toward innocence, because everything we've learned about Black doesn't feel right for murder and betrayal."

Rose scoffed as she shed her fitted jacket and kicked off her tightly laced boots.

"_You're _not entirely sure," she corrected. "I've met the woman. She's horrible, the worst type of politician, but Amelia's on it, so hopefully we won't have to deal with her for too much longer."

"Right," Harry laughed. "I can tell you really like her. Do you need me to do anything to help, or-"

"'Nah," his dad grinned. "We'll sort it out. Just let us know if you think of anything new or if you want updates."

With plans made and serious business out of the way, the trio went back to their meal. Somehow, they all ended up dipping their sandwiches in the gooey yellowish stuff, and Harry hated to admit it, but fish fingers and custard really did taste delightful.

Afterward, to fill the time until Neville called back, Harry showered and threw his grass-stained uniform in the wash. After another peek into the parlour to check the fireplace, he set about to resume looking for his communicator, just in case it had gotten stuck somewhere in his bag or trunk, or somewhere else he'd missed in his earlier search.

Half an hour later, his books, robes, supplies, and a small heap of rubbish lay strewn around him, but the earpiece remained absent from his inventory. He did manage to locate his third uniform, which he thought he'd left at the Hospital wing that horrible night. He briefly wondered how things might be different if Madam Promfrey hadn't demanded he take his ring off so she could him, or better, if he'd remembered to take the thing out of his pocket and put it back on. He sighed loudly and resolved to have Cuddie look for the earpiece when he returned to school.

Harry took the opportunity to organise his books and try on his robes in preparation for his trip to Diagon Alley. By the end of the hour, his everything-trunk lay clean of debris, and each compartment boasted the satisfying appearance of recent reorganisation. He also penned letters to the rest of his friends, resolving to pass them to Neville just so they knew what was going on.

"Jemmy!"

The boy grinned and clicked his fingers. The open luggage snapped shut, the rubbish flew into the bin under his desk, his too-short robes began folding themselves on the bed, the letters on his desk found envelopes, and three stickers bearing his name and Wizarding-styled address sealed them closed.

"Coming!"

He bolted from his room with the letter in hand and thundered down the stairs to meet his friend at the fireplace.

* * *

**19 July 2013**

_Bing!_

Harry groaned and rolled over in his bed.

_Bing!_

His arm stretched to grope at his bedside table for the digital alarm clock on its edge. He smacked it once and rolled back over.

_Bing! Bing!_

The boy sat up groggily and stared at the blurry red lights in annoyance. They weren't flashing, as far as he could tell, and yet, he could still hear that annoying noise. He mashed his glasses on his nose and turned toward the source of the disturbance.

_Biiiiiiiiiing!_

"Augh!"

Harry scrambled back against his headboard and stared. A pair of glowing tennis ball sized, lime-green eyes stared back at him from the darkness around his desk.

"Eep!" it squeaked.

The lights switched on with a faint whiff of burning dust and ozone to reveal the interloper in sharp detail. The boy gaped. An extremely thin house elf wearing an abysmally dirty pillowcase the same shade of grey as his sallow skin shrank away from Harry as several emotions warred for dominance on his soot-smudged face.

"Dobby is sorry to bother Harry Potter, Sir, but Dobby had no recourse," the elf said in a tremulous voice.

The pitiful elf cowered against the wall as if it wished the blue-grey paint would swallow it up. Harry belatedly realised he held his wand on his visitor, and immediately felt bad for it. He hastily shoved it under his pillow before straightening again to observe the terrified being.

"Sorry," the boy murmured groggily. "You just startled me. What are you doing here, Dobby? Did your masters send you?"

Dobby twisted bat-like ears and whimpered. Every so often, the elf's eyes darted to the door.

_Bing!_

"Oh-" Dobby sobbed. "Please, let Dobby leave. Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter! Dobby didn't mean any harm. He just wants to go home, now, please."

Harry blinked.

"Sorry, I don't understand," he said slowly. "As much as I'd like to know what you're doing here in the first place, I wouldn't stop you leaving. Why can't you? I don't think our house has two-way anti-apparition wards. Just in-bound ones, and I didn't think they applied to elves."

"But there must be!" the elf wailed. "Dobby has tried and tried many times, now!"

He clicked its fingers again for emphasis.

_Bing!_

"Ohhh… Hold on a tic."

The boy pulled back his covers and walked over to his desk to pull his sonic scanner from the top right drawer. It hummed happily at him as he activated and pointed it at the intruder. Dobby flinched, and the boy frowned.

"Sorry, I'm taking a scan to figure out what my dad's done. He's a bit mad, and I think he may have messed with something that accidentally prevented you leaving," he explained while he fiddled with the device. "It won't hurt you. Why don't you take a seat for a minute?"

"S-sit down?" Dobby whimpered miserably. "Sit down- Harry Potter is too kind to Dobby! If he knew- If he knew what a bad elf Dobby was, he wouldn't…"

The elf plopped onto the desk, buried his face in his bony little hands, and sobbed. Harry stared in alarm. He hastily finished his examination, and the sonic continued humming its analysis while he awkwardly rubbed the elf's back in hesitant circles.

"It's all right," he said in a voice he hoped sounded soothing. "I'm sorry I scared you. Just tell me what's wrong, and I'll try to help."

"Help Dobby," the little being moaned. "Harry Potter is too kind, Sir, too kind. Dobby heard, but… He never thought a Wizard would speak with an elf like-"

He hiccupped and sniffled loudly.

"-Like an _equal_. It is Dobby who wishes to help Harry Potter, Sir. Dobby thought perhaps if Harry Potter thought his friends did not want him, that perhaps he would stay away from Hogwarts, and then Harry Potter would be safe… "

The short rant dissolved in hiccough-y tears. Unable to think of another solution, Harry gently folded the inconsolable elf into his arms. When the door slammed open a moment later, the elf buried itself deeper into the boy's chest.

"It went 'bing!'" the Doctor said excitedly, holding his detector aloft as he grinned wildly at him. "And Jen's fast asleep and Dippy's not due for another four hours. Was it you?"

"It was probably him," Harry whispered, nodding to the wriggling bundle of flesh and panic. "I woke up and he was on my desk, and he said he's been trying to leave, but something wouldn't let him. Also, your thing started making noise a while ago. Did you just now hear it?"

"Ah, yes," the striped pyjama-clad man smiled sheepishly. "Also the poor chap's failure to evacuate would also be me. Sorry. I tweaked the security to connect things to the detector. So!"

He loped into the room, and Harry gladly loosened his hold on Dobby so his dad could get a better look. The little elf shuddered but turned bravely to look up at the man as he sat on the desk beside him.

"What's the matter-"

The Doctor glanced at his son.

"Dobby," Harry supplied in an undertone.

"Dobby?" he tacked to the end of his question.

Slightly reddened, lime green eyes searched their faces for several moments. The elf began twisting the hem of his filthy pillowcase. The Doctor noticed, and his easy smile tightened a little in the corners.

"Dobby hoped that if Harry Potter thought he had no friends in the Wizarding world, he would not want to go back to Hogwarts," the elf mumbled miserably. "Dobby heard Harry Potter managed to send letters out, so he came to find out how."

"That's rather unkind, Dobby. I'm disappointed," the Doctor gently scolded. "So you're the one that's been stealing Harry's letters, then."

The elf twisted his ears again, and Harry could not find it in him to resent the pitiful elf.

"Yes, Sirs. 'Tis better than the alternative," he wailed. "Dobby knows… Dobby knows there are horrible things afoot. Harry Potter will be in great danger if he goes to school this year. Please, Sirs. Learn at home, or go to the school in France for a year, but Hogwarts is not safe!"

Dobby whimpered and twisted his ears so hard they reddened. The Doctor carefully unwrapped the elf's fingers and held his hands while sharing a glance at his son.

"We would have listened to your warning if you just told us," Harry murmured. "Thank you for trying to protect me. Can you tell me anything more? Is Hogwarts unsafe for me specifically or for everyone?"

"Oh-" Dobby sniffled. "Hogwarts is unsafe for everyone, Sirs, but the risk is far greater for Harry Potter, Sirs. He is too good, too important, to be lost! Dobby remembers, Sirs. Dobby remembers what it was like before the Dark Lord fell. House elves were treated like lowly beasts, Sirs. It is so much better for the others, Sirs! So much better, Sirs. Even Dobby's treated better for Harry Potter's existence."

He shuddered violently, and Harry looked away from the elf's miserable face. His gut twisted.

"Dobby must go, please, Sirs. Dobby's master will be very cross if he notices Dobby missing."

"All right," The Doctor allowed the little elf to wriggle and hastily made an adjustment on his detector with his screwdriver. "Do you mind giving Harry his letters? Message received and all that."

"Dobby only wanted to help," the elf whimpered and pulled a thick stack of envelopes from the neck of his pillowcase. "Please don't go to Hogwarts this year, Sirs."

With that, the elf popped away, and the envelopes fell to the desk with a muffled smack. The Doctor's machine _bing_ed more quietly than before. Harry leaned sideways until his head bumped his dad's shoulder, and the man wrapped a comforting arm around the boy's shoulders.

"Sorry," he sighed. "Looks like it's not going to be as quiet as we hoped."

"At least it isn't Dumbledore," Harry muttered. "And how bad could it be? I mean, we fought Quirrellmort last year and lived through it."

"Ugh," the Doctor groaned, squeezing his son a little tighter. "Your saying that so casually is disturbing in itself. If something does happen, please just let us handle it. You shouldn't have had to last year, and I don't ever want you facing anything remotely like that again. The subjects in Defence and Herbology should be the most dangerous things you deal with until you graduate."

"Gladly," the boy hummed sleepily.

He yawned and his face stretched dramatically with the motion. He was still having nightmares after his jaunt down the corridor, and he had only accomplished a couple hours of sleep before his unexpected awakening.

"Also, your mum would kill me."

"Mm," he mumbled. "Could you turn down the alarm feature on that thing? It's what woke me."

"I think that's the point."

Harry's eyes had closed, though, so the Doctor wasn't sure whether he heard his answer. The boy returned to asleep again before the father had deposited him back in bed. He smiled at his son's placid face, swept his fringe aside to plant a kiss over his scar, and left the room much more quietly than he'd come after switching off the lights with a whirr of his sonic screwdriver.

* * *

_19 June 2013_

_Dear Harry,_

_We'll be flying out tomorrow. We're going to be staying in Gruissan, which is on the west side of France's southern coast. It's three hours' drive into the Pyrenees to Couflens, which is supposed to be a tiny little village in the mountains looking at non-magical maps, but I wrote a letter to the French Ministry's Office of Tourism and they informed me there's a thriving magical community in that area. I convinced Mum and Dad to take me on a day trip through the mountains to see it, so I'll get you and the others some souvenirs while I'm there. _

_What do you have planned for the summer? I imagine with your grandfather running again you'll have to do at least some society function or another. I hope you take some time for fun, though, outside of doing experiments with the Doctor. _

_Also, when I get back, would it be all right for me to come over and practice? Also I need someone to talk to about you-know-what. I keep having nightmares, and I'm worried if I tell my mum and dad why they won't let me come back to school. Please let me know as soon as you can._

_With love,_

_Hermione_

…

_25 June 2013_

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm most putout you haven't written me. Since you're a procrastinator, I thought I'd send you a reminder that you're supposed to be a gentleman and should have, therefore, at least sent a note thanking me for my assistance in that mess at the end of the year. _

_Speaking of which, how are you? You were rather worse for the wear on the train ride home. I remember you got dizzy twice and slept after the trolley witch came by. In any case, I hope you're improved enough to write. It's dreadfully dull here, even with my brother home and my sister excited to start next year. _

_If I haven't told you about her yet, her name is Astoria, and she thinks you're handsome from the photos I brought home. I've informed her you're as of yet unsure if you're interested in women or men. She said she doesn't care so long as it's not __only__ men you like. _

_Do let me know if you figure that out, won't you? I believe I know at least one person other than my sister who fancies you. Not me. As fit as you are, I think you're a little too high-maintenance for my tastes. _

_In other news, my mother was most impressed when she and my brother gave me my practical review. We always duel, and my brother always ends up disarming me, but I managed to catch Phillip off guard for once with a wandless banishing charm. He says he'd like to give you a try, too, since I told him you taught me. In the meantime, I'm showing him how to do the small bit of wandless I know. I hope you don't mind._

_In all seriousness, I was teasing before when I said I was putout with you for not writing. I know the holiday's barely started. We're going to our house in Brighton for a week in August, and Mother said I could invite a few friends along. I plan on inviting Tracy, Blaise, Hermione, Neville, and Draco, too. Please let me know by the last week of July so the elves can ready the bedrooms. _

_I look forward to your letter. _

_Yours,_

_Daphne. _

…

_20 June 2013_

_Hi Harry,_

_I hope you're feeling better. You looked knackered coming back from school. _

_I was wondering, do you think I could tell Gran about what happened this spring? I know I said before I wasn't comfortable talking to her about stuff, but our relationship's really improved, and I'm going a little barmy. I keep having these awful dreams, and I can't keep sneaking dreamless sleeps. They're really horrible for you if you take too many, and I'm already at my limit for the week. Also, do you remember what I did with my Bluetooth? I can't find it._

_Looking forward to hearing from you,_

_Neville_

…

_29 June 2015_

_Dear Harry,_

_Did you get my letter? I'm a little worried. France is lovely. I visited that magical town I told you about, and I got to swim with gillyweed. It's the oddest sensation. I grew gills and webbing between my fingers and toes. It's definitely the best way to dive, though. There aren't any reefs where we're staying, but it was still lovely swimming underwater and looking up. _

_What are you getting up to? Have you finished your homework?_

_Hoping you're well,_

_Hermione_

…

_30 June, 2015_

_Dear Harry,_

_Did you receive my last letter? I'm becoming actually putout with you. Please write me. It's dreadfully dull, here, and I've already finished my homework._

_I hope you're well._

_Yours,_

_Daphne_

…

_3 July 2013_

_Harry,_

_Are you all right? Did you get my letter? I still can't find my Bluetooth. Should I floo? I can't remember if you said that'd be all right. I know your grandmother and grandfather are nonmagical, and I know Jenny has some nonmagical friends, so I don't want to just call at a bad time. I tried to send you a letter through the Wizzless post, but I couldn't find you in the directory they showed me, or the Doctor or Rose. I thought about sending a letter to your granddad, but I thought he might think it odd if I sent a letter to his office address claiming to be your friend. _

_Anyway, I hope you're feeling better._

_Neville_

* * *

**30 July 2013**

The days that followed Dobby's unexpected visit passed much more happily than those preceding it. With the mystery of his mail solved and the elf's shenanigans found out, Harry successfully read and sent belated responses to the newly recovered letters. In return, in addition to relieved messages from his friends, he also found himself swarmed in owls bearing birthday wishes.

He got a card from the twins with a small tin of Honeydukes sweets labelled specifically 'for your enemies;' a box of _Zonko's_ _Infamous Joke Products_ from Daphne; a pair of meteorite cufflinks from Draco along with a note apologising for his lack of contact, confirming receipt of Harry's note, and asking he not send a note in return; a stasis-sealed jar of Gillyweed from Hermione with instructions on its use; and from Neville, he got a self-expanding climate controlled apothecary jar with several dittany seedlings poking through the rich, dark soil inside.

So by the time the hour arrived to leave, the doldrums that so stubbornly clung to Harry from the moment he arrived home had vanished. The Doctor, Rose, Jenny and Harry, dressed smartly in summer robes and bearing a bunch of white heather and dark pink roses from their garden, arrived in the lobby of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries surprisingly free of ash or soot. Harry sniffed experimentally at his sleeve as he stepped aside from the hearth, and his sister stumbled out and into his arms. She quickly extricated herself from him with grumbles of not needing assistance. He detected the faint whiff of an automatically activated sanitation ward and wondered briefly why no one installed them in private homes or businesses.

Hospitals, Harry realised, must always resemble one another, even if one has wards named after stodgy old board members and the other for Spell Damage and Artefact Accidents.

The reception room overflowed with witches and wizards waiting in spindly wooden chairs who sported all manner of magical ailment. One woman's head had shrunken so small Harry could hardly tell it was there atop her dramatically tapered neck. Another wizard scratched at an impressive horn growing rapidly, and crookedly, out of the side of his head. A little boy covered in green pustules cried and complained to his mother, who had spello-taped his hands inside a pair of mittens to keep him from scratching at the oozing blisters. Like any good hospital, the smell of everyone's go-to disinfectant (in this case, Mrs Scower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover) permeated the air.

A healer bustled up to them from the desk labelled _Inquiries_ with a clipboard in hand and a do-not-mess-about expression on her face.

"Injured, ill or visiting?" she asked without preamble.

"We're the Smith family, here to visit Alice and Frank Longbottom," Rose offered after scanning the gold sign tacked to a wall. "We're supposed to meet Madam Longbottom and her grandson, Neville, at the Janus Thickey Ward."

"Ah. The Longbottoms. I'm afraid we only admit family to the Janus Thickey ward, for the safety of our patients and the public."

The Doctor squeezed Harry's shoulder, and the boy quickly stepped forward.

"Yes, ma'am. You see," he began with a shy smile. "Alice Longbottom's my godmother. I was hoping to come see her, since tomorrow's my birthday and today's Neville's. We're mates in school and we would have been like brothers, if she had gotten the opportunity to raise me."

The healer did a double take, and her steely eyes focused on Harry's upturned mein. He dared not look away or drop the anxiety displayed on his face. She pursed her lips and sighed.

"Fine, go on then, Mr Potter, Mr and Mrs Smith," she finally acquiesced. "Fourth floor, Permanent Spell Damage. Give your name to the orderly and wait in the reception room for Madam and Mr Longbottom to show you in."

"Thank you," the Doctor and Harry simultaneously called while quickly corralling Jenny toward the gleaming brass and tile staircase just beyond the reception.

Harry and Jenny thoroughly enjoyed the trek upstairs for the scenery. Aside from the lime-robed healers, mediwizards and their patients, they also caught posted signs that advertised healer-approved potioneers and apothecaries or wriggled with health and safety tips.

They passed the third floor landing, designated _Magical Bugs and Diseases_, where framed photographs of faintly green-tinged wizards with vibrant purple spots and rashes framed the large, pane-glass double doors. Above it, a large green banner proclaimed:

_Dragon Pox is Highly Dangerous to Older Children and Adults! Vaccinate your Child Today!_

"Perhaps we should take the time to check if they have any real records here on you sometime this summer, Harry," Rose hummed thoughtfully. "You might need a whole set of vaccinations we never knew about. Jen, too."

The Doctor made a face. Harry and Jenny groaned in unison.

"Sorry, kids," their father whispered.

On the third floor landing, a poster with faded edges flashed between images of a cartoon wizard bending over his cauldron and of gravestone surrounded by grieving women. Below, in acid-green, bold letters, it read:

_A Clean Cauldron keeps Potions from becoming Poisons!_

Similarly, a few stairs up, another public safety message animated a shelf full of innocent looking phials labelled with _Mum's Miracle Brew_, which changed to show a very worried mother and her projectile-vomiting son.

_Antidotes are Anti-Don'ts Unless Approved by a Certified Healer!_

When they arrived at the door simply labelled _Spell Damage_, the posters were replaced by self-writing chalkboards between doors that wrote and illustrated the message of the moment.

_A Wand in a Child's Hands is a Recipe for Disaster!_ scrolled across one with a cartoon of a child blowing up his brother like a balloon, only for it to be erased and replaced by:

_Remember the Three Ts! Teach safety, Take precautions &amp; Tell a Healer if all else fails!_

They followed the hallway around a corner and up a shorter flight of stairs with a sign pointing to _Irreversible Spell Damage – Long Term Care _to enter the Janus Thickey ward. With just a glance around, it already looked less hospital-like than the areas they passed. A small sitting area held several well-worn sofas and armchairs strewn with crocheted doilies and hand knitted throws. Several tattered board games lay stacked beneath a large coffee table bearing many years' worth of water rings and tea stains that even magic, it seemed, could not remove. A mediwitch worked behind a small desk by the heavy ward door at the rear of the cosy waiting room, and a very large man posed with his thick arms crossed over his chest sat precariously on the spindly chair beside her.

"May I help you?" the witch inquired pleasantly.

"We're here to visit Mr and Mrs Longbottom," the Doctor smiled. "But don't worry about us just yet. We're supposed to accompany Neville and Madam Longbottom."

"Madam Longbottom has arrived, Mr Smith."

The family turned to find the matriarch poised on the top stair with Neville following closely in her wake. Jenny smiled and rushed to hug Augusta about the knees, and the imposing woman smiled beneath her vulture hat at the little girl's enthusiasm.

"Hi Auntie Gussie!"

"Hello again, dear," Madam Longbottom thrummed. "How are you?"

"Very well, thanks. Thank you for letting Neville's stay over tonight and tomorrow. Harry's usually so boring on his birthdays I usually have to cause trouble just to give him something to do."

The adults in the room, healer and orderly included, laughed indulgently at the girl's assertion and her brother's exasperated glare.

"Hi Neville," Harry greeted as his friend emerged from behind his grandmother.

The boy grimaced, and Harry braced his shoulder.

"Hello," he said quietly. "Thanks for coming."

With the entirety of their party in attendance, the mediwitch nodded to the orderly, who stood to unlock the door with a key at the end of the chain he fished from his pocket. The Doctor graciously gestured Madam Longbottom forward, and the woman strode purposefully into the ward with her grandson in her shadow and the Smiths close behind him. Bright sunshine streamed through the large bay windows opposite the door of the long ward and cheery, soft green wallpaper with a scaled deco pattern brightened the walls. Gauzy white drapes hung on tracks between the larger-than-usual beds. Most lay empty, though the nearest contained a woman covered in fur. She barked twice as they passed before rolling over in her bed.

"I am most pleased Neville invited you along to see Alice and my dear Frank," Madam Longbottom declared. "It's only right you boys pay your respects. They sacrificed everything so that you may live in this peaceful era."

Neville's head drooped. Harry twitched guiltily, and he felt the Doctor's long fingers grip his shoulders reassuringly. Madam Longbottom stopped, and Neville stiffened. Harry stepped out a little from their closely clustered group to follow his friend's gaze.

The woman looked so pale Harry had missed her in his earlier survey of the room. Her hair, which he imagined had once claimed the same sandy blonde colour as her son's, had faded to almost translucent white wisps that hung lankly over her shoulders and down her back. Her blue eyes seemed too large for her thin, drawn, wrinkled face. Seated in the bright pool of sunshine beneath the window, the light bathed her so completely as to make her near invisible.

Harry thought her not unlike photographs of recovering war prisoners he'd seen.

"Oh, Alice," Neville's grandmother wearily sighed. "What are you doing down there, dear?"

She bustled forward and helped the faintly smiling woman to stand with one arm while she levitated a cushy armchair beneath the window for her with the other. Alice sat docilely and started humming a tune Harry couldn't place.

"May I ask how?" the Doctor murmured with a hand each on the boys' left and right shoulders, respectively. "I read they were attacked when we were looking into Harry's records, but the papers weren't specific."

"Torture. Continuous exposure to the Cruciatus Curse," the woman replied shortly. "They were so very gifted, the both of them – The best Aurors in the force and very well respected, even at such a young age. I worried Neville had not inherited their talents, but it seems there's hope, yet."

Her thin lips twitched, and she turned to glance appraisingly down at the boy in question.

"I'm sure they would be very proud," Rose assured Neville with a hint of steel.

The newly minted twelve-year-old continued to stare at his feet.

"Hn," the older woman said a little distractedly. "Neville? Why don't you introduce Harry and Jenny Renette to his godmother and your father?"

The Doctor helpfully conjured a cushioned loveseat beside Alice's chair, and the kids shuffled forward. Harry and Neville sat beside one another, and Jenny took the end with a book in hand. Alice looked up and slightly past them. She slipped a bony hand into the pocket of her woollen dressing gown, withdrew a single piece of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, clumsily unwrapped it, and popped the sweet into her mouth. Her unfocused eyes slid over the children, and she offered Neville the wrapper.

"Hi, Mum," Neville whispered.

He looked over at Harry apologetically.

"This is Harry Potter, Lily Potter's son. We're best mates at school."

Harry smiled at Alice.

"Neville saved my life last year," he said in an undertone. "Helped me escape from that dark wanker."

Neville choked, flushed scarlet, and whipped his head around to check for his grandmother, but the matriarch seemed fully engaged with the Doctor at Frank's bedside. Jenny studied him with mild interest, but returned to her book at her brother's wink and smile.

"He was amazing," Harry continued. "He looked almost as afraid as I felt, but he still charged in there and kept me from getting murdered."

"That's not how I remember it," Neville muttered. "Anyway, Mum, I wanted to bring him here because- Well, I don't know. It felt right, I suppose."

He stared at his hands.

"I'm so rubbish at this," the boy sighed. "I thought it would be easier with you here, Harry, but I still don't know what to say."

"She's your mum," Harry shrugged. "You don't have to say anything. She obviously loves you very much."

The woman had stopped humming to extend another sweets wrapper to her son. Neville smiled weakly and accepted the bit of wax paper.

"You know," he said after a short while. "Ever since we faced You-Know-Who, I've been really angry."

Harry leaned into his friend a little and made a sympathetic sound. Mrs Longbottom continued smiling past the children at something only she could perceive.

"I mean, angrier than when we found that stupid mirror," Neville elaborated. "Why my mum and dad? Why yours?"

"We still don't know," Harry replied gently. "We're going to try to talk to Black, but even so, Dad says war doesn't make any sense. Why does anything happen? Prophecy or no, I doubt we'll ever know _really_. The universe doesn't operate on the basis of human reason, and we just have to try to make sense of the aftermath and move forward the best we can."

"How can we do that if it's not over? It's not good enough."

Neville clenched his hands into fists and sat straighter.

"If _he's_ still out there, it means the war isn't done and gone. He'll try again, and since most of his followers got away with it, before, we'll be right back where our parents were. Stuck in the middle of a stupid war. It might be different if you'd have killed him with Quirrell-"

Harry flinched at the memory, and Neville shook his head apologetically.

"-But he ran away. Hermione said this horrible smoking ghost thing rose from Quirrell's ashes, and it tried to attack you, and you had this sort of fit," he said shakily. "She said she had to hold you down after it went away to keep you from hurting yourself. If he's that powerful without a body, how can we-"

"I don't know," Harry mumbled. "But we beat him."

"We got lucky," the other boy insisted with thinly veiled panic in his eyes. "We're just kids! It's bad enough what my parents went through was a waste, and the ministry didn't believe us about You-Know-Who, so how are we supposed to…"

Harry gave his hunched friend a one-armed hug as the boy struggled to choke back furious tears.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm pretty rubbish at emotional stuff, too. Don't worry, though. Dad and Mum weren't involved in the last war, but this time, they'll take care of it. They've already got Amelia Bones in on things. I promise, Nev. It'll be all right, and you and I will be there when it's over to put the rest of the world to rights. That's why I'm sticking around. As I understand it, we're both going to be magically created peers when we're of age, so we'll be able fix everything that didn't get fixed last time."

Neville gave his friend a watery grin.

"C'mon," he said when his eyes had cleared of moisture. "I'll introduce you to Dad."

The rest of the visit still retained a bit of sadness, but the anxiety that had hunched Neville's shoulders melted away. They even experienced a few happy moments.

While Harry and Neville spoke gently to the unresponsive Frank Longbottom, the Doctor and Rose sat a long while with Alice. Somewhere in their interaction, Rose recognized the tune the woman continuously hummed under her breath. This, of course, led to the Doctor rushing out to buy an old crank-up record player, which he brought back along with several Beatles albums.

After convincing the mediwitch of his qualifications with the help of his psychic paper, she and the orderly stepped aside. A few taps of his wand had the record player restored to working order, and another adjustment enchanted its crank to wind itself with a tap of the wand. Rose picked out the appropriate record and organised the rest on the lower shelf of the bedside table. Afterward, he instructed the orderly and mediwitch in the record player's operation, and soon Alice beamed while humming a little off beat to "Something." Augusta harrumphed at what she considered 'overly graphical' lyrics, but did not protest as Alice curled up next to Frank on their oversized hospital bed.

They all decided to leave on that note with Augusta and Neville in tow for their return to the floo downstairs, and everyone quickly departed for Harry's home.


	3. Birthday Cakes and Oxygen Factories

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Here you go! Real life is starting back up again, so I may have to start posting weekly or bi-weekly rather than the insane pace I set for the last book. Thanks for your continued interest and for taking the time to read.

* * *

Chapter Three – Birthday Cakes and Oxygen Factories

* * *

The boys and Jenny went first, and to Neville's delight, the floo dropped them not in a parlour or a foyer, but in the most bizarre and beautiful room he'd ever seen.

Cheery, yellowish panelling and sweeping, graceful beams supporting a bright, vaulted ceiling. Circular windows of orange and yellow stained glass, enclosed by swirling vine wood, glinted merrily in the early afternoon sunlight. Most peculiarly, the beams did not seem carved or even held in place by any visible fasteners or supports; rather, they seemed to grow from the very floor itself in an unbroken swirl of smooth, polished wood that ended just before the far wall's edge, where an opening in the floor revealed an equally organic spiral staircase leading downward.

Augusta stepped out of the fireplace and stared about with open surprise and turned to Harry's parents as soon as they strolled out of the green flames.

"This is lovely, but I can't imagine this is your home, Mr and Mrs Smith," she quipped.

"Where are we?" Neville asked, peeping through the nearest window.

Wherever it was appeared to be very high up.

"You'll see!" Jenny crowed.

She ran down the stairs and out of sight.

"Apologies, Gussie," the Doctor said with a grin. "Kind of like your home, we've set the floos for one-way travel from within the house. This is our only entry point for apparition, floo, or portkey, so we decided to keep it separate from the main house."

Neville broke into a wide grin as he turned to Harry.

"This is the tree house!" he exclaimed.

"Yup."

"Tree-house?" Augusta murmured. "How very odd."

Harry smiled and gave a brief tour as he led the way down the sweeping staircase.

"Dad and I have been experimenting since he got home. This room was my idea, based on what Dad told me about his old transport and what I saw in the Hufflepuff common room."

Augusta raised an eyebrow, and Neville laughed.

"They've all but adopted him, Gran. He spent a whole weekend figuring out how to get in, and since Hermione vouched for him, he's been there loads of time since."

Harry shrugged.

"I made it harder than it should have been – Too vain to get sprayed with enchanted vinegar. Anyway, Dad's gotten really good at influencing wood. He found that if the tree's still growing, he can use runes and spellwork to make it maintain a transfiguration without drawing on his magic. It looks like it's grown because it _is_ grown. There's not a fastener here at all. The trick was splicing different plant cuttings into the design to get the scrolling vines."

"It's amazing," Neville breathed. "You've combined transfiguration and herbology. Professor Sprout would _love_ this."

The level below the sitting room served as a potions lab. The cloud-shaped windows were paned with the bottoms of old yellow and green bottles in varying shades. A long workbench stretched around the edge of the room wherever the staircase didn't, holding wracks of glass phials, a large glass cauldron with a matching lid, several non-magical appliances, and, for a reason Neville couldn't discern, a rubber mallet.

"Very impressive work, Mr Smith," Augusta said appreciatively. "Although, this last room is most unusual."

They had reached the original floor with the familiar high definition screen and beanbag chairs. Round wooden trays floated at seated height near each beanbag (which wore all shades of warm brown leather as opposed to the house-oriented colours of those at Hogwarts), and an odd panel floated near the television covered in buttons, toggles and dials.

"This is how we communicate most often with the kids at school," Rose explained. "One afternoon the Doctor was just sitting in here, working, and the screen came on, and Harry was there, staring back at us."

"How extraordinary," Augusta mused. "How does one achieve such a feat? I thought floo was the only alternative to post for communication with Hogwarts students."

"There's a room," Harry supplied. "We just stumbled across it early during our first term when I was missing my parents. The house elf that takes care of the Slytherin first years, Cuddie, later told me they call it the come-and-go room."

"It gives you whatever you want," Neville added. "You just have to focus on your specific need, and there it is. We even made it give us a swimming pool, once."

"Gracious," the old woman smiled faintly. "I daresay you're getting into even more than your father did at school. I'm amazed you haven't gotten into trouble with Minnie, yet."

Harry and Neville tried not to look guilty, or look at each other at all for fear of laughing.

"We are, too. There have been a few close shaves," Harry finally managed.

"Anyway," the Doctor said, bouncing ahead of his guests. "I'm sure everyone will be pleased to know I've installed a secret lift, so we don't have to use the ladder unless you really want to."

"Since when?" Harry laughed.

Rose rolled her eyes.

"He was up all night doing it, and woke me up at half past four to show me."

"I needed someone non-magical to test it on," he pouted. "Just in case."

"Right."

The Doctor tapped on the wall just a few feet away from the staircase's end. A panel, previously indistinguishable from the rest of the wall, popped open to reveal a hollow behind it. The Doctor grinned at them all, gestured them forward, and pulled the cord nestled within.

Harry gasped. It was as if they, or the floor, had become no more substantial than air. One moment they were standing on the first floor of the tree house and the next, the lush grass of their garden sprawled underfoot.

"Most delightful," Augusta laughed. "I do say, Mr Smith, I find your fanciful constructions very diverting. And what a beautiful garden you have."

"Wow," Neville agreed. "Mrs Smith, have you taken up herbology, too?"

"I have. I can't use a wand or spells, but I'm fairly good at the more physical aspects of magic," she said a little proudly. "I've got a wonderful growth of flutterby bushes and moonvine."

They continued on toward the house, and Neville delighted in naming all the new magical additions to the garden on the way. In the brief time since Harry returned to Hogwarts after Christmas, Rose and the Doctor had been experimenting with every aspect of magic they could touch. Now, nearly every room in the house held something extraordinary, and the garden and tree house stood as a testament to everything else they had learned. Jenny waited for them just inside the doorway to the games room, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"What took you so long?" she complained. "Dippy's already started on dinner."

"Oh, I wish she wouldn't" the Doctor frowned, turning to Augusta. "I wanted to make the boys something special."

"She'll allow you to help," the matriarch laughed. "But I doubt you'll get her to leave you to it. Believe you me, I have tried many a time. Eventually, I just gave up."

"She's wonderful," Rose said. "And she's amazing with Jenny," she added in an undertone as the little girl ran off again.

Rose and the Doctor led the woman into the sitting room, leaving the boys to their own devices. Harry smiled and continued the tour, ending with his own bedroom. Neville looked around interestedly. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves comprised the wall to the left side of the door, and the wall opposite them featured dressers and shelves where a few well-loved toys and some models gave him hints at what must have been a very fun childhood. Harry's bed lay unmade to the right, between a huge, mechanical model of the solar system and a bedside table.

"This is where you'll sleep," Harry said as he pushed on a section of the centre bookshelf. "Sorry there's not a guest bedroom. Dad made the first two into a lab and library, respectively, and the other one belongs to my Uncle. Tony stays over whenever he needs to get away from society life or his mum, or both."

Neville gaped as an arched portion of shelving rotated out of sight. Its other side created an arched alcove housing a cushy daybed littered with cushions and comfy knitted blankets. Naked light bulbs hanging from the alcove's rounded ceiling flickered to life as soon as the section clicked into place.

"Your house is brilliant, Harry," Neville said. "Amazing."

"Mum says Dad's really a ten-year-old stuck in a grown-up's body. He goes a little mad when we remodel."

"So, did he just..?"

"I don't like studying at a desk really, and Dad said I should never mix my sleeping place with my studying place, so he built me a 'reading nook.'"

"_That's_ a reading nook?"

Harry shrugged.

"Like I said. He goes a bit mad."

Neville laughed and tucked his suitcase into the open storage beneath the daybed.

"Thanks for having me over. Honestly, my birthday's usually really dull."

"It's no problem, Nev. So is mine. I've always been the odd one at school, you know? So no one ever came over."

"Thanks, anyway. This is going to be brilliant, even if Great Auntie Enid and Great Uncle Algie are still coming over for lunch."

Harry grinned.

"Dad's got a surprise in store for you all. He doesn't know I know, but I caught him tinkering the other day."

"I hope it's not _too_ lively. Auntie Enid's got a nervous disposition."

Both boys held their somewhat serious looks for all of two seconds before bursting into laughter. Neville may not have known the Doctor as well as Harry, but he knew that much at least: He never did anything by halves, and definitely didn't do _not_ lively.

…

Fortunately Great-Uncle Algie and Great-Auntie Enid, despite their great ages of 142 and 115, respectively, possessed just the sense of humour the Doctor approved of. Otherwise, the explosion that splattered them all with robin's-egg-blue frosting and sumptuous angel food cake _might_ have steered the birthday tea off course. Still, Neville thought the entire affair teetered between highly entertaining and nerve wracking for a number of reasons.

First, every so often, Jenny belched a shower of sparks over the dinner table, which would then bounce and change the colour of whatever they touched. It was later revealed she'd gotten into a package of Dr Fillibuster's Edible, Belchable Sparkler Sweets. Once, when Neville happened to look away from his food, he found his roast duck replaced with half a steak. He looked away again to find a slice of quiche. When he asked Harry, his friend could only shrug.

"I think Dad was experimenting before Dippy started serving dinner," he said. "Anything could happen."

But the surprises did not end with the rather odd dining experience. When they moved into the sitting room for tea and biscuits, Neville witnessed the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

He had, of course, noticed the large television mounted on the wall of the sitting room, but what it could do awed and inspired him. He sat between Harry and Jenny on the largest sofa, the telly came to life, and the most extraordinary things came across its screen accompanied by cheery music that filled the room so completely that he looked for the orchestra responsible. A beautiful woman in a jaunty hat wearing red lipstick sat upon a cloud beside a large carpetbag and an umbrella with a handle like a bird.

"What a delightful portrait," Great Auntie Enid complimented. "But where are all the subjects coming from? Do you have other portraits upstairs?"

"Auntie Enid," Rose said with a mischievous smile, "It's my pleasure to introduce you to the invention non-magical people call a _film_."

The Doctor and Rose went into a quick explanation of what films were, all while Neville stared in wonder as the tale of Mary Poppins and the Banks family.

"Well," Augusta said when it had finished. "I can't say much for Mrs Banks' singing voice, but I do agree with her sentiments. It is a shame to admit it, but a married woman, even an ennobled one, has little say in her life. If it weren't for my dear father's trust in me, there was every chance our Neville would have nothing to inherit at all, let alone the roof over our heads."

She smirked.

"My _dear_ cousins the Selwyns certainly attempted to take it from me."

Harry and Neville exchanged looks at that, both privately shuddering at the bloodthirsty expression on Augusta's face.

"But you were far too canny for that, sis," Algie croaked approvingly. "He still whinges about it."

"Are you sure this Mary Poppins wasn't a witch?" Great Auntie Enid asked, stirring a second shot of brandy into her tea. "Only wizards tidy up with a click of the fingers."

"Yes, very," Rose smiled. "I was mad about the film when I was a kid, so I looked up where Mr Disney got the idea from. There was a very real Mr Banks, just as cross as the one in the story, and his daughter wrote a novel about her childhood."

"Now–" The Doctor clapped his hands together and grinned about at everyone. "How about we open presents?"

"Presents!" Jenny crowed.

The visit ended soon thereafter. Once the boys had unwrapped their birthday gifts and said their thanks, Neville's family departed the children and Smiths. Augusta left them with the promise to meet on the first of August in Diagon Alley.

Exhausted and stuffed to the brim with pleasant memories and wonderful food, Neville and Harry barely managed to get up the stairs for bed while the Smiths took care of their daughter. Hyped up as she was on tea and sugar, Jenny had only made it to half past eight before collapsing on the hammock downstairs.

"What do you think?" Rose whispered as she flipped off the last lights.

The Doctor smiled as he lifted his limp daughter into his arms. He waved a hand at the abandoned teacups and saucers, which sailed gracefully away to slip quietly into the sink, submitting themselves to the tender mercies of an animated scrub brush and dishrag.

"I think everyone had lots of fun," the Doctor replied. "The kids are cream-crackered."

Rose smiled as she held open Jenny's bedroom door.

"I don't think Harry's ever enjoyed himself more."

* * *

When Neville woke the next morning, he could scarcely believe the evening before had happened at all. If it weren't for the birthday presents strewn about his bed, he wouldn't have. The wand-controlled mechanical mouse Harry gifted him (adjusted for a magical environment and fitted with a tiny camera and listening device for his snooping needs) twirled and squeaked tinnily at him when he sat up to step into his slippers.

"Morning," Harry mumbled.

Neville laughed when the boy tossed off his covers. His hair stood up all over, as if someone had rubbed his scalp with a balloon.

"Happy birthday," Neville grinned. "What are we doing today?"

Harry yawned, slid out of bed, put on his glasses, and started toward his bureau.

"No idea. Mum and Dad planned a surprise."

Neville couldn't imagine what sort of surprise could top last night's festivities, but went along with it, anyway. Certainly, whatever it was, Mr and Mrs Smith seemed very excited all through breakfast, after which they were instructed to 'dress non-magical-like', which translated in neat but casual clothes for their kids. Jenny picked a pair of closely fitted jeans, trainers, a blue button-up shirt and a tiny version of the Doctor's duster. Harry went with similarly slim, fitted jeans, a burgundy tee featuring a stylised picture of an iron printed across his chest and the word '_Irony'_ underneath, smart oxford shoes, and a light grey blazer. The Doctor as always kept his suit, but Rose chose jeans, like her kids. On his part, the Gryffindor felt a little out-of-place in his pressed khaki trousers and crip, button-up shirt as he, Harry and Jenny sat in the back of their family's blue car. Harry, apparently, noticed his discomfort because he started talking as the car sped onto the motorway.

"A few weeks ago, this car wouldn't have fit three of us back here, even though Jen's so tiny."

"Hey!" Jenny complained.

Harry smirked at her.

"You'll grow, eventually."

The little girl stuck her tongue out at him.

"Did you resize it, Doctor?" Neville asked.

Harry's dad winked and smiled secretively.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. It's technically illegal to alter or enchant non-magically produced vehicles and items without special dispensation from the Ministry."

The Gryffindor snorted a laugh.

"So what else have you gotten up to this summer?" Harry prompted.

The blonde boy shrugged as he unbuttoned and carefully rolled up one sleeve, then the other. It was a little too hot for them.

"Tended to the greenhouses, mostly," he offered. "I did some practice casting for charms and transfiguration, but it's still slow-going. I can barely manage to consistently do the ones you lot helped me with."

"What about wandless?"

"Much better, actually," Neville blushed a bit and grimaced. "I've been doing a lot of levitation and banishing charms. Not nearly as good as you or Hermione, though. I barely passed my practicals last term, and I've not improved much with the spells I need for year-end exams. They'll probably hold me back this year."

The Slytherin frowned and twisted a bit to look around Jenny and her child car seat.

"You can't tell me you still think you're not a good wizard," he said disbelievingly. "You knocked _Voldemort_ on his arse."

"Language," the Doctor reminded lightly.

"Sorry, Dad. 'Bum,' then."

Neville shrugged again and shifted self-consciously.

"That was different, and it was probably mostly you and Hermione."

"I was half passed out and not quite over my dreamless sleep potion," Harry protested. "You and Hermione did the heavy lifting. I just aimed."

"Well," the round-faced boy shrugged helplessly. "Either way, I'm rubbish with everything else. I can manage some charms, like I said, but transfiguration never feels right."

The Doctor twisted in his seat to look at the boy curiously. He flipped his screwdriver out of his sleeve and hummed at whatever he saw.

"Maybe it's the wand, Nev," he suggested. "I don't think it likes you."

"Oh," Harry laughed. "I completely forgot about that. Maybe we should pop into Ollivander's. I bet that's exactly what it is. Explains why you don't have any more trouble with wandless than Hermione."

Neville slipped into a contemplative frown, and Harry respectfully let him think about it.

"We're nearly there," Rose commented after a while.

The car slowed and exited into a tunnel lit with electric lights and helpful signs. Excitement radiated off the woman as they turned again at a sign that read _Wimbledon Commons Underground Parking, _and the boys couldn't help but soak it up.

"You're going to love this," she said, bouncing a little in her seat.

"But this just goes to the W-C car park," Jenny pouted. "Are we going to ride in Grandpa's zeppelin?"

The little blue car pulled into a space. The Doctor began pulling badges out of the glove compartment while the children watched in bemusement.

"Nope," Rose grinned. "Everyone out. You'll see soon enough."

The air ship docks, better known as the Wimbledon Sky Palace (or simply Sky Palace, for short), were located on the grounds of Wimbledon Common. A beautiful construction of sparkling glass spires and domes made up the terminal, over which the air ships idled as passengers boarded and disembarked. Smaller vessels docked at shining steel and glass platforms stretching behind the palace. Neat gardens overflowing with English roses and other such flora lay at its feet, among which one could ride horseback (if so inclined), a golf cart (as was more common), or walk while the zeppelins took off and landed overhead.

The sight overwhelmed Neville like _Mary Poppins_ had the night before as he and his hosts rode the glass-encased lift from the car park to the top level of the palace (with the help of the Doctor's shining badges).

A pleasant, disembodied voice, not unlike the one he once heard in a Ministry lift, welcomed them as the lift slowed from a quick clip to a gentle stop.

"Level fifteen, First Class concourse. British LuxeAir wishes you a pleasant journey!"

Masterfully etched doors slid smoothly open for them, and Neville found himself looking everywhere at once. He marvelled at it all. Like at the International Portkey offices, there were brass and marble ticketing desks and seating arranged for reception, but that was all he recognized from his few dealings with travel. The Ministry's portkey terminals were cramped, with a few spindly chairs to sit in while travellers waited to stand, elbow-to-elbow, next to crotchety strangers too early in the morning or very late at night. These, after all, were the only times wizards could travel en masse without drawing notice for their odd dress or mannerisms while leaving arrival locations.

The Sky Palace, too, claimed seating, but comprised of luxurious settees and velvet-upholstered chairs. Marble-topped side tables flanked each area in tasteful arrangements, upon which passengers rest fine china cups of coffee, tea, sparkling flutes of champagne, and other colourful concoctions. He briefly wondered what the little umbrellas were for, but quickly lost focus at the sight of the staff.

Every single red-uniformed employee looked like they had been cut from one of Lavender Brown's magazines. Beautiful men and women wandered among the travellers, carrying serving trays, bussing trolleys, or providing other assistance.

"This way, kids," Rose instructed, leading them all past the shining desks and through the glamorous crowd.

Neville and Harry followed at a sedate pace while Jenny rushed to keep up with her parents.

"Something feels different about this place today," Harry whispered as they approached the largest desk at the end of the long room.

"Is it always this… Ostentatious?" Neville murmured.

The Doctor and Rose presented the badges to the man posted there and commenced a whispered conversation as Neville continued staring around.

"Yeah, in First Class. The lower levels are for Business and Second Class boarding, and they're not quite as nice as up here, but still pretty spectacular, especially compared to flying by plane."

"I've heard about zeppelins, but I never thought I'd ride in one," the Gryffindor said a little hesitantly. "How does it stay up?"

Harry tilted his head slightly as he strung together an explanation he thought a wizard-raised kid might understand.

"You know how McGonagall's always on about the type of materials used in transfiguration?"

Neville blinked.

"Yeah?"

"If you take a lump of iron and drop it in water, it'd sink," Harry hedged. "But what happens if you transfigure the iron into cork, for example?"

"It floats."

"That's because a lump of iron's a lot denser than the stuff that makes up cork," the Slytherin concluded.

"I'm following," said Neville, confusion clear on his face.

"Well, just like iron's denser than a cork, the air inside the zeppelin's less dense than what's outside of it."

The round-faced boy grinned.

"I see," he said. "So its basically a big balloon? I didn't know there were different types of air, though."

Harry nodded emphatically while Jenny looked up at them in disbelief. Her brother gave her what she dubbed a it's-a-wizkid-thing look, and she rolled her eyes.

"Yep," he agreed. "It's a balloon with a motor and climate control, and remind me to introduce you to YouTube."

"I will. Er-" Neville glanced around.

The Doctor and Rose continued their furtive conversation with the man behind the counter, oblivious as the kids in their charge fidgeted in growing anticipation.

"Are we going to ride in one?" he guessed.

"Really, I don't know," Harry sighed. "I gave up trying to guess what my parents are up to ages ago. We once rode a giant worm through an underground station."

"Really?"

"Jallyngoloris named Jeff. Nice chap. A little slimy, though."

Neville decided he never wanted to _really_ know what a Jallyngoloris was. He shuddered a little at the thought.

"Brilliant!" Rose crowed as she turned to the kids.

Behind her, the concierge dashed off with their badges in hand. The Doctor rocked on the balls of his feet and practically twinkled as he smiled at them.

"Oh, you're in for a treat, kids," he breathed. "Really wonderful timing, this."

"What?" Jenny begged. "Daddy, please, I don't like surprises!"

"Liar. You love surprises. You're just very impatient."

"There he is. Let's go!" Rose squealed.

The concierge had nodded at them just once from the far end of the concourse, where he stood before a scarlet curtain. The curtain draped the spot where gate nineteen should have been, based on the numbers over the adjacent archways, in an area cordoned off in velvet rope.

Rose waved them forward and held back the cord for the kids to pass. She pecked the Doctor on the cheek before linking arms and following them through the curtain. Like the other gates, the arched entrance led to a glass corridor carpeted with the same burgundy as the First Class concourse. The children curiously followed the gangway onward, but couldn't see the point. There seemed to be nothing at the end of it.

The Doctor took the lead as they approached the corridor's end and pressed his palm to a consol housed in the centre of the left-side wall. Rose mirrored him with the consol on the opposite side. The wall they faced shuddered and blinked, the colours fluctuating, until it seemingly faded from existence. Sweet humid air spilled out.

Where there should have been steps or an entry corridor, all they saw was green. Ferns larger than the boys were tall protruded from the opening, behind which they could make out a tangle of slim, mossy trunks and vines. Harry thought he heard the call of a howler monkey and definitely saw a flash of gold and blue as some tropical bird flew out of sight.

"Go on," Rose urged them. "It's a project Torchwood's research team have been working on to test compression fields and miniaturisation. It's perfectly safe, now that the Doctor's tweaked it to be bigger on the inside, instead. Also, the animals on the floor level are all designated non-harmful to humans larger than infant-sized. Try not to squish anything by accident, though."

"Well, me and a bunch of non-wizard-raised chaps that decided working in the magical world wasn't worth the stigma," the Doctor admitted. "We've signed loads of wizards onto both Unit and Torchwood since you lot started Hogwarts. We're hoping to re-grow the oxygen factories in South America."

"Oxygen factories?"

"He means the rain forests," Harry breathed with a glance to his friend. "The local farmers in South America have to compete with other countries' produce companies for sales and land, and they can't afford to let their land rest. Eventually, the soil won't support their crops, so they have to burn the forest to feed their families. No trees, no air. The rainforests are responsible for most of the world's oxygen: one of those gasses I was telling you about. It's the one that lets us breathe."

Jenny stepped aboard eagerly, and the Doctor and Rose watched in smug satisfaction as the kids dashed off to explore the jungle beyond the wall-that-wasn't. Peaty soil whispered and squelched underfoot, and lush greens brushed their sides as they wandered after their kids' happy voices. Blue-winged butterflies, hand-length dragonflies, shining honeybees, colourful birds, scurrying reptiles, neon amphibians and nearly invisible rodents flew, scurried and crawled through the canopy and underbrush. Eventually, they all wound up on the bank of a slow-moving river and settled in for a picnic to watch the clouds float over the transparent ceiling.

"Is it magic or is it really see-through?" Neville wondered aloud before biting into an excellent beef and cucumber sandwich.

Rose smiled and leaned into the Doctor's chest.

"Both. Ceiling's made of a super-strong safety glass-ish stuff, and the zeppelin's gas chamber's rigged to project the sky outside, except when it's time for it to rain."

"When's that?" Harry asked as he tossed another cherry tomato to the ducks swimming just off the bank.

The Doctor checked his wristwatch.

"Not for another hour or so. There's a hut we can visit when it does, or we can swim."

"That's all right," Neville mumbled. "I didn't bring my costume."

"It was a pre-planned surprise," Rose reminded him. "I had Gussie leave it with us."

One rain shower, several sandwiches, nineteen bottles of juice and water, and one very nice swim, another birthday cake (to make up for the exploded one from yesterday's tea), and one sunset later, the Doctor announced it was time to disembark.

"We've just landed," he said, leading the way back to the entrance.

"I didn't know we were moving at all," Jenny yawned. "Where are we now?"

"Hotel for the night," Rose answered, ushering them out the door and down a rope ladder onto a flat, brick rooftop. "We'll have dinner in the restaurant and tomorrow, it'll be off to Diagon Alley."

Thoroughly exhausted after a day of excitement, Neville curled up in the tidy single bed beside Harry's at the super-clean and uncluttered hotel Rose had chosen for the night. He felt thoroughly glad the adventure didn't come at the price of breaking into forbidden corridors to fight dark wizards. Harry could invite him along on this sort of enterprise any time, because Neville felt sure: It _was_ the best birthday he had ever enjoyed.


	4. Shopping Takes Too Much Effort

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Important changes in this chapter as of 4/11/16.

* * *

Chapter Four – Shopping Takes Too Much Effort

* * *

Compared to the previous day, Diagon Alley seemed almost tame, and he found himself gushing about the experience to his grandmother when she met them for breakfast in the Leaky Cauldron. The surprise on her weathered face at his exuberance slid into delight while she listened to her grandson's account.

"Thank you for inviting Neville along for your birthday Mr Potter, Doctor and Rose," Madam Longbottom said once he'd finished. "It sounds as if you went through quite a lot of trouble to entertain him."

"Not at all," Rose assured her with an affectionate ruffle of Neville's hair. "He ought to have been Jemmy's brother, so of course we'd want him along. I hope we can do it again next year."

"Perhaps we shall have to arrange a visit to our winter house in Switzerland, then," Augusta said graciously. "There's a wonderful dragon reserve not far from the chateau, and I daresay the house has stood empty long enough."

"Ooh, that'd be lovely," the Doctor hummed.

"Real dragons?" Jenny asked, eyes wide.

The old woman gave the little girl a playful smile.

"Swedish Short Snouts, Norwegian Ridgebacks, and Finnish Seawürms, if I remember correctly."

Jenny peppered her parents and Augusta with questions on magical creatures for the rest of breakfast, after which she demanded to be taken to Gringotts so she could see a dragon for herself. The Doctor, curious after Harry's encounter with Norbert the baby Norwegian Ridgeback, eagerly obliged.

"Gussie?" Rose asked as she glanced up the alley toward the bank.

"No, I think I'll visit my club for a nice sherry, if Neville and Harry want to go it alone."

The boys reassured her of that very quickly.

"Very well then," Madam Longbottom said decisively. "We shall meet at Flourish and Blotts at two."

With everyone in agreement, and the Doctor, Rose and Jenny off to see a dragon, Harry set off with Neville toward Madam Malkin's. Both of boys could see a long stretch of ankle when they donned their school robes.

"I'm so glad its just books and a top-off for standard supplies this year," Harry said as they ducked inside the shop. "I think my trunk would have weighed half a tonne without those feather-light charms last year."

"I don't really understand why they make us take everything home, you know?" Neville commented as he shrugged on his Hogwarts robe. "They could let us keep our cauldrons and most of our books at school, not to mention most of our supplies. It's not like we change rooms or anything."

A tape measure began flying around him of its own volition, a grease pencil hanging from the mirror noting the measurements on the glass.

"Homework, remember?" Harry said wryly. "Most people don't do it until the week before we get back."

"I still think there ought to be a better way to do it," Neville insisted. "Not everyone can afford feather-light charms or do them properly, and books are really dear."

"You're probably right, but I bet it's the way it is because of some stodgy old board member."

"That's it for you two," Madam Malkin interrupted with an indulgent smile. "Just leave your robes and cloaks with me, dears, and I'll have them finished by the time you're done shopping."

"Thank you," Harry said, handing his uniforms over.

"I'll debit your accounts, boys. Have a good time, now, and be safe."

"Yes ma'am," they said together.

Harry looked down the street and eyed their lists. A queue of mostly witches had formed outside Flourish and Blotts, which as yet remained with doors unopened. The boys eyed each other warily.

"Quills and parchment?" Harry suggested. "I want to buy some metal nibs."

"Great idea."

In an effort to while away the time before they had to brave the crowd at the bookseller's, the boys replenished their supplies with notebooks, folios and bottles of fadeless colour-change ink (a tap of the wand to switch from black, to green, to blue, to red, and back again) on top of their parchment and quills. Afterward, they strolled to the sweets shop, Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, and the apothecary. They still determined it wasn't close enough to two (and the crowd hadn't dwindled enough) for them to try finding their books, so, in need of a distraction they went into the Magical Menagerie on a lark.

Hedwig and Sir Wibbly would both be cross with him when he came home, Harry decided. The odour of magical animals hung heavy in the air, and if he could smell it, Hedwig and Jenny's kneezle would _definitely_ notice. Neville eyed a tank full of fat, glowing horse flies as they buzzed around in helical patterns.

"The sign says they'll make whatever eats them glow. Do you think I should get some for Trevor?"

Harry pursed his lips.

"Might make him easier to find when he tries to make a break for it, again," he suggested. "You should make his middle name 'Houdini' for the escapes he's made. I mean, what sort of amphibian can get around four copies of _Hogwarts a History_?"

Neville laughed and picked one of the faintly buzzing cartons from the shelf.

"I've got no idea. Maybe I ought to get him a glass terrarium. He might be slipping through the bars of his cage."

"Maybe he's more magical than he lets on," Harry mused.

Neville gave the shopkeeper five knuts for the flies. She dropped them in the till without looking at either of them and turned the page of her novel.

"What about you? Anything catch your eye?" he asked.

Harry's gaze flickered to a tiny case in the window display, where a little snake with iridescent blue scales sunned itself in a placid coil. It was only about four inches long, at most, and thinner than the shaft of a quill. Its tiny rounded head raised a scant quarter-inch to turn and stare with little black eyes to meet Harry's gaze.

"Oh," Neville shivered a little.

He did not like snakes. One had tried to eat Trevor over the summer, and it was all he could do to levitate it away.

"I couldn't take it to school, though," Harry said wistfully. "She's just really cute."

Neville grimaced and shuffled his feet.

"Well… Technically you're not _disallowed_ a second pet, so long as you're not careless about it. It's one of those rules they don't enforce unless someone causes problems."

Harry eyed the little snake thoughtfully. She sat up a little taller. Coiled as she was, she only stood about an inch high.

"D'you think I should?"

"If your parents won't mind, and you want her." Neville shrugged and pointed to the sign. "I think Iridescent Bluescales are used for potions ingredients, otherwise."

Harry met pretty blue snake's beady-eyed stare and grinned.

"That settles it, then."

They left the store with the snake's little belljar, a box of live crickets to feed her, and Neville's carton of flies just after the clock turned a quarter 'till two. The snake, dubbed 'Kilat' ('lightning,' in Malaysian, for her speed and country of origin), curled happily inside Harry's breast pocket and hissed happily about the warmth and joy of leaving the house of predators.

The post owls, apparently, did not respect the shopkeepers' desire to keep Kilat alive, and had often attempted to eat her when left unattended.

"_What did you do?"_ asked Harry in an undertone so quiet it sounded like he was breathing through his teeth.

"_I bit the owl, of courssse. Not enough to kill it, but it learned not to be ssso bold."_

"_So you're venomous?"_

"_Only enough to kill mice and insssects and to protect myssself. It only caussses temporary pain in larger thingsss – At leassst, until I am bigger."_

"_How big can you get?"_

"_My mother was as long as you are tall, but ssshe was very aged. Mossst of usss do not live that long," _Kilat said in a near silent hiss.

"What is she saying?" Neville asked.

"She's a baby, still. Her mum was as long as we're tall."

The Gryffindor grimaced.

"Great."

Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

"No worries. It'll be ages by the time she gets that big. And she's really quite sweet."

They reached the crowded front door to the bookseller quickly enough despite their rambling pace. To the boys' shared dismay, the crowd gathered before the store had only grown since they last saw it. Men and women both clamoured to fit through the narrow doors beneath a banner spanning the upper floor windows:

_Meet GILDEROY LOCKHART_ _in the flesh – Book signing for new release, MAGICAL ME today 12:30 – 4:30 p.m._

"Brilliant," Neville muttered dully. "My gran always says he's a clay galleon if ever there was one."

"Clay galleon?" Harry quirked a brow. "Meaning he's more hair than brains?"

Neville didn't get a chance to respond. It became nearly impossible to hear each other, let alone stay together, as they tried to wind their way through the mad throng crowding in the too-small main floor. They had no trouble finding their books, however. _Standard Book of Spells: Grade Two_ and two sets of Gilderoy Lockhart's complete works sailed into their arms as soon as they found an adequately unobserved spot behind one of the taller bookshelves. Both boys made faces at the grinning, winking face staring at them from the covers. Making it to the register proved harder.

"Do you think Gran and your parents will be able to find us in this?" Neville shouted as they squeezed between two particularly excitable witches.

Harry deftly ducked an elbow.

"Doubt it! We should just pay and wait outside."

"Ow!" Neville shouted.

A wizard in wrinkled linen robes and a tattered hat shoved Neville in his haste to snap a photo of the elaborately dressed wizard seated on the dais in the centre of the shop. Harry caught him just before he could topple a column of precariously stacked books and sent a glare at the photographer.

"Oi, watch it! You could hurt someone!"

"Shut it, you, it's for the _Prophet_."

"That's no excuse for being a berk," Harry snapped.

He turned to help Neville gather up his spilled books, but someone's hand clamped down hard on his bicep and yanked him backwards.

"Dear Lord! It's Harry Potter!"

The crowd parted and the cacophony faded to a faint, whispering hum. Harry felt his face and ears burn as a blonde wizard bodily dragged him to the pedestal to growing applause. A flash and a purple cloud of smoke momentarily blinded him while Gilderoy Lockhart forcibly shook his right hand.

"Big smile, Harry, my boy," the author said through his own blindingly bright smile. "Together we'll make the front page."

Harry's brain reengaged as he coughed away the last of the smoke. The photographer raised his camera again.

"Excuse me," he nearly shouted over the din.

Every eye turned to the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry breathed in slowly and with the best impression of Professor Snape he could muster, stared coldly at his impromptu audience.

"Who do you think you are?" he demanded, turning his attention back to Lockhart. "You can't just grab people going about their day. I don't even _know_ you."

The fastidiously groomed and colour-coordinated wizard only beamed brighter, though his right eye twitched. He reached out as if to pull Harry into a one-armed hug, and the Slytherin stepped back.

"Harry! Don't be melodramatic, my boy. Bad form, you know–"

People had begun whispering. Lockhart's smile flickered just a moment, and the boy sneered.

"Bad form?" he said coolly. "Your photographer bowled over my friend – which neither of you apologised for, by the way – and you manhandled me for the sake of a photo-op, and I'm not being accommodating enough for you?"

The murmurs got a little louder. Several of people previously queuing for autographs sent confused looks at one another and the suddenly unsure wizard. Harry tried not to grin. Pete Tyler had given him quite a lot of coaching on how to handle a forced media confrontation, and he intended to put those hours to good use. The bruise he felt growing on his left arm demanded as much.

"Now, now, my boy," Lockhart tried again. "I simply wished to shake your hand–"

"I'm not _your boy_," Harry interrupted. "And I don't want my photo taken. I'm just a kid. You can't just grab me and haul me around like I'm your pet monkey. If I were petty, I'd call an auror and charge you with assault, but since I've been taught to give people the benefit of the doubt – not to mention, I'd rather get back to my day – I'll settle for an apology."

The wizard shifted and huffed.

"Well, I don't see-"

Several people began to grumble as Harry's words sank in.

"I know he's famous, but that's The-Boy-Who-Lived."

"He's right. If he were my boy, I'd give the man a smack."

"Just what does he think he's playing at?"

"You should be ashamed, you overgrown peacock!"

A few others echoed the sentiment. It didn't take long until they were shouting at him in earnest. Lockhart shrunk under their fury, unable to manage more than a few half-formed stammers.

"N-now see here–" he tried.

Someone threw a crumpled up poster at him. Harry wisely stepped off the little stage to rejoin Neville, who gaped at the spectacle with wide eyes.

"You can't treat The-Boy-Who-Lived that way!" a woman shouted.

"Harassing someone for your vanity-"

"I didn't–" Lockhart shouted.

"Prat!"

"…owe that poor boy–"

"…should be ashamed–"

"I… I–"

Their growing indignation, the heat of the cramped shop, and the patrons' likely aching feet quickly spurred them to frenzy, and debris began flying heavily from every quarter.

"Please, ladies, gentlemen! Please!" a very harassed looking wizard with a manager's badge shouted.

The boys wove through the much larger bodies toward the register, both laughing while Lockhart, shielding himself with a copy of _Magical Me_ and clutching at his photographer's cloak, pushed his way toward the exit.

The manager finally gave up and whistled shrilly. The painful noise did what his raspy voice could not.

By inches, he restored order to the upset queue, but by then, Harry and Neville had already made it to the counter. Neville handed him back his books (which had fallen out of his arms upon his unwilling ascent to the dais), with a bemused grin.

"That was wicked," he hummed. "I'm sure Draco will be proud when you tell him. You handled that like a politician."

Harry laughed.

"You should see how Granddad does it. Besides, he's a berk. I hope he's a good writer, at least, or classes are going to drag this year."

Neville frowned as he handed over his gold.

"What do you mean?"

"Based on that shambles, who else would make us all buy his complete works for one class?" Harry answered drily.

They paid without further incident, but even without the book signing hindering their progress, the usual back-to-school crowd slowed their exit considerably. After several failed attempts at a direct route to the door, the boys decided on an alternate exit. Slipping past the spaces made by oblivious witches, wizards, and their kids, the boys found the back of the shop, where a narrow staircase half-obscured by books led up to the first floor.

"This place isn't even that big," Neville huffed in disbelief. "How can there be so many people in here?"

"Someone – Oof! – Got lazy," Harry grunted, squeezing behind a particularly solid wizard.

"Excuse me–"

They found a clearing among the bodies, bookshelves, and teetering towers of tomes. Harry straightened as he recognized the owner of the bland, deep voice. A dignified man with shoulder-length, platinum blonde hair and piercing grey eyes nodded slightly at them both in greeting.

"May I offer my assistance? It's a shame to say most people are too…" The man's lips mouth unpleasantly. "Shall we say, _uncouth_, to recognize when they stand in the way of their betters, regardless of relative height. Hopefully, they'll know come to recognize you faster as you age."

Harry regarded the man neutrally. He recognised him from Draco's family photo at school, but even if he hadn't, the imposing wizard looked and walked quite a lot like his friend.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry said. "I don't think I've had the pleasure of an introduction. Are you Mr Malfoy? Only, Draco resembles you very closely."

The man's thin lips pressed curled into a smile. Harry instantly thought of a shark.

"My son's told me a lot about you, Mr Potter. The pleasure is all mine."

They shook hands. Harry tried to relax the tense set of his shoulders, and Neville shifted beside him nervously.

"How is Draco, Sir?"

"About somewhere, I'm sure. He's getting his books. Since it's unlikely you'll gain any height without the assistance of an aging potion, shall I escort you downstairs?" he offered, dismissing Harry's question. "I believe I saw Madam Longbottom at the café across the way."

Harry thanked him and gestured for the man to lead the way before glancing back at Neville.

"_Do you see Draco?"_ he mouthed.

The boy shook his head slightly.

"Harry! Neville!"

Fred and George Weasley, solidly built fourth-year beaters for Gryffindor (and self-styled semi-professional troublemakers), muscled their way through the throng toward them, casting cautious glances at the sneering Mr Malfoy as they approached. Harry couldn't help but feel relieved at the sight of them. After a year of finding the Slytherin common room by sense, he easily discerned what he now understood as a wizard's signature, and Malfoy's wasn't kind. It smelled of snow and tasted of burnt pine. It curled against his and Neville's magic like creeping fog: insidious, chilling, and impossible to ward against.

"Red hair, complexions of the oft-afield," Malfoy observed aloud. "Attire of questionable origin and age-"

The twins glared at the man fearlessly.

"Of course. You must be Weasley spawn. Is there something you wanted? I was escorting Mr Potter and Mr Longbottom to their guardians."

Harry cut across the twins' answer, which promised to be vitriolic in nature if he judged by their reddened ears, before they could give it.

"Actually, Sir, I'd told Fred and George we'd meet up before we left," Harry said in a rush. "I forgot in all the fuss earlier. Thanks for your assistance, though."

He nudged Neville to walk past the Malfoy patriarch who stared down at them coolly.

"As you wish, Mr Potter. I'm sure your first-hand judgment of these–" He paused and smirked around the word he undoubtedly wanted to say. "–Delightful folk supersedes my own. If you won't reconsider-."

It might have ended there, but before the twins could shoulder a path through the crowd for the smaller boys, a tall, balding redhead in well-worn robes and a slightly lumpy, hand-knitted jumper strolled over. He grinned as his kind eyes found the soon to be second-years. Harry had never met him, but the resemblance to his sons quickly identified him as Arthur Weasley, his mum's previous boss. Ron Weasley and a girl with equally flaming hair followed in his wake.

The former glared at Harry. He had never quite forgiven Harry's Slytherin sorting. The latter, Ginny, if Harry remembered correctly, clutched a dented cauldron overflowing with very shabby second-hand books and did her best to make herself look smaller at her father and brothers' side.

"Harry, Neville," Mr Weasley greeted warmly. "There you are. I just saw your mum and Madam Longbottom outside. I told them I'd fetch you out for them."

"Th-Thanks, Mr Weasley," Neville managed. "We were just telling Mr Malfoy–"

"Malfoy?"

Mr Weasley looked up, and his pleasant disposition evaporated. The lines in his face stood out as his smile tightened into a tense grimace.

"Lucius," he said by way of cool greeting.

"Arthur," the statuesque blonde drawled, smirking. "My, you look exhausted. I do hope the Ministry's paying you overtime what with all those late-night raids."

He raised a white eyebrow and plucked a very worn, dog-eared, stained copy of _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling from Giny's collection. The girl flinched at his proximity, to which Fred and George reacted by flanking their father and shielding their sister in one aggressive motion.

"Then again, perhaps not," he sneered. "Tell me, what is the point of your disgraces against wizardry if they don't even pay you for your efforts?"

Mr Weasley's mouth thinned into a white line in his reddening face as he put one hand each on the twins' shoulders. Both had twitched as if to attack the man.

"Obviously, we have very different ideas of what disgraces a wizard," he ground out.

Harry tugged Neville back slightly until they stood just behind the twins. He could smell and taste the crackle of magic building between the wizards, and he really didn't want to get between them if they started flinging hexes. As nice as he thought the Weasleys were based on the twins and the slightly uptight Percy, he recognized a shared temper to rival his grandmum Jackie's.

"Indeed," Lucius sneered at Mrs Weasley, who watched anxiously beside a bookshelf nearby. "Yet, I shouldn't be surprised, really. After all, how much farther can you fall when you make the only surviving descendent of the Prewett line a common brood mare? You might have found yourselves better off if you had her ply her trade elsewhere-"

Like a dying filament in an incandescent light bulb, the tension snapped with a sharp tinge of ozone, and Harry yanked the girl out of the way as Mr Weasley, the twins, and Ron tackled Malfoy into a bookcase. The cauldron clattered across the floor, and patrons jumped out of the way of the flailing limbs and falling books.

"Don't you _ever_ talk about my wife!" Mr Weasley snarled.

Fred, George and Ron's contributions to the dialogue were far less genteel.

"Boys! Arthur!" Mrs Weasley shrilly yelled. "Stop this at once!"

They kept on, though, and Harry felt fairly certain they wouldn't stop until Malfoy resembled a bit of rare meat.

"You okay?" Neville asked the redheaded girl as she stared at the chaos with wide brown eyes.

She nodded.

"Want help with your books?" he offered.

Harry looked down. The cauldron had spilled its contents all over the place. He ducked and snatched up two volumes before the swaying crowd, or Mrs Weasley (who was attempting to extricate her husband and children from the fight by applying liberal stinging hexes), could inadvertently trample them.

"Here," Harry grunted, passing the books to Neville, who had just righted the cauldron. "You're Ginny, right?" he asked the girl, who had chased down two other books before they could be scattered by the stampede.

"Yes," she squeaked. "Thanks for helping. Sorry about them."

"They're boys," Harry shrugged.

Neville frowned at him.

"We're boys."

"Someday, we'll get into a fight over something stupid, too. I just hope we have the sense not to do it in front of witnesses."

"Sometimes, Harry, you scare me," Neville sighed.

"Arthur Weasley, stop right this second or you shall sleep in the sitting room for a month," Mrs Weasley tried again. "Arthur!"

"Please! Gentlemen!" an assistant shouted.

The press began screaming around them as they knocked over teetering stacks of books and overburdened bookshelves.

"Ow!"

"Watch out!"

"Gerroff me you git!"

It was quickly devolving into a brawl not unlike ones Harry had seen in movies.

Harry ducked low, his arms over his head to protect himself from the falling tomes, and squinted through the dust and bodies. Kilat hissed at him in fear and frustration from his pocket. He patted the writhing lump in light reassurance.

"We can get out over there," he shouted over his shoulder. "Coming, Nev, Ginny?"

The other two nodded eagerly.

"Stick close!"

He screwed up his face and tried to corral his frayed emotions, then expelled a long breath. He focused, and the struggling mass of robes and limbs shot apart just enough to allow fairly thin adults or three normal sized children to pass unhindered. Harry felt Neville grab onto his cloak as he led the way out of the rapidly deteriorating store, their purchases clutched tightly to their chests.

"Neville!"

The boys and Ginny sighed in relief as Augusta Longbottom came into view.

"What on Earth is going on? Tell me this instant," she demanded, her face devoid of good humour.

The stuffed vulture perched on her hat teetered angrily, and Harry fought the adrenaline-inspired impulse to laugh at its bobbing head.

"My dad and Mr Malfoy are fighting," Ginny explained, her cheeks flaming. "He was saying stuff about my mum."

"Foolish man," Augusta grumbled. "Molly's well equipped to handle herself. He coddles her too much. Did you know, young Weasley, your mother won two international duelling championships before she graduated Hogwarts?"

"Really?" the girl squeaked. "She never said."

Harry and Neville slumped into the café chairs recently abandoned by curious spectators and set their shopping down.

"Where are Mum and Dad?" he asked as he drew Kilat from his pocket.

The brilliant blue snake coiled around his thumb and squeezed appreciatively. She felt very glad to be away from the noise and potentially squashing objects. When he looked back at Augusta, her face had taken on a determined, hard look.

"Up the street picking up your robes with darling Jenny. They didn't know how long you'd be in the bookstore and thought it best to make sure we got them before we left.

"Now," she said, turning back to Ginny. "I think we are in need of a little order, are we not?"

"Yes, please," Neville groaned. "The last hour has been mad."

"I shall like a more detailed explanation later, young man," his grandmother assured him. "But for now, let's remind those silly people how proper British wizards and witches behave."

The boys and Ginny watched in appreciation as the Longbottom matriarch adjusted the lay of her hunter green suit, rolled back the sleeves of her dark red over-robe, drew her wand, and marched into the fray with her hat tilted jauntily on her white hair. What several shop clerks and countless fully-grown witches and wizards had failed to do, Augusta accomplished with two cannon blasts and a widespread immobilising charm.

"That is quite enough of that, thank you," she boomed in her sternest voice.

"Mr Hurst," she said in a lower tone, addressing the harassed looking manager frozen with his hands pulling at his candyfloss hair. "You may bill Mr Malfoy for the expense of fixing your shop, seeing as he instigated this unworthy debacle."

Even from across the alley, Harry could spot the glint of murder in the frozen Malfoy's eyes.

"Now, I am removing the Weasleys from this mess, and you may all go about your merry way. I hope you all feel ashamed of yourselves. You are grown men and women, wizards and witches all, and you panic at a few falling books? It is no wonder the Dark Lord nearly won."

She then proceeded to free the Weasleys from her spell. Harry would have laughed at their expressions if he wasn't feeling so tired, already. The twins and Ron were faintly smug, having upheld their family honour. Mr Weasley, though humble before his wife's ire, stood taller than when he entered the fight. Mrs Weasley, panicked as she was, nearly missed the fact Ginny had escaped the chaos with Harry and Neville, and spent five minutes searching through the frozen patrons before Augusta could calm her enough to inform her on the child's location. Ever sensible, Augusta corralled Mr and Mrs Weasley in assisting in rudimentary cleanup of the twice-riled shoppers. They walked through Flourish and Blotts conducting triage, identifying children, the injured, and the extremely elderly for re-mobilisation before the other still figures. The boys made polite but tired conversation with Ginny, who seemed to jump at the slightest sound after so frightening an experience. Neville had managed to calm her with quiet advice for his favourite subject when Harry heard a soft cough. He turned and grinned at the sound's origin.

"Draco!" he called in relief, sitting up quickly to greet the boy who had unobtrusively made his way to their table from the sluggishly correcting shop.

His robes were wrinkled, and his hair stuck up, but he seemed relatively unscathed.

"I'm so sorry, I thought your dad was lying about you being in there or I would have told Madam Longbottom. You all right?"

"Yes," the pale blonde assured him, straightening his robes with sharp, practiced tugs and gestures. "I'd only just gotten back to find my father, actually, but I saw what happened."

He smoothed his coif back into order and turned to Ginny, who stared wide-eyed and anxious between the boys.

"I actually wanted to apologize, Miss Weasley," he said formally. "I didn't hear what he said, but I can imagine. Anyway, I saw this fall out of your cauldron and thought you might want it back."

The boy held out a black leather diary, and Ginny frowned in confusion.

"Th-Thanks taking the effort," she stammered. "Sorry about my family, too. The boys don't do well with their tempers. Mum's always telling them."

Draco nodded his acknowledgement and gave his friends a wry smile.

"I'd better go," he sighed. "Mother's waiting for me at the Leaky Cauldron, and I had better go prepare her for the impending rant."

Harry made a sympathetic sound and clasped the boy in a manly, one-armed hug.

"Write me, yeah? Or see if you can find your communicator, and call Mum or Dad with it. Mine's gone missing, and they haven't been able to make me a new one, yet. Or write Daph, and she'll write me."

The other boy nodded in a way Harry took to mean he would try and quickly retreated down the street. Neville frowned and nudged the Slytherin's elbow. Harry shrugged, and his friend sighed.

"You think he'll tell us on the train?"

"Dunno," Harry hummed. "We're dorm-mates and the most I've heard him open up about home was when he first joined us in the tree house."

By the time the Weasleys and Augusta had finished returning order to the bookshop and shaken off the dually angry and grateful Mr Hurst, Harry felt very glad to retreat home with his mum, dad, and sister after hasty but happy goodbyes to the Longbottoms.

"Going to tell us what happened?" the Doctor asked once they settled in for dinner that evening.

"Tomorrow?" Harry pleaded. "I did adopt a snake, though."

Kilat poked her head out of the neck of Harry's shirt, where he'd transfigured small hidden pocket. She tasted the air and hummed her approval to him.

"Wow," Jenny gushed. "She's really pretty."

The snake preened.

"I'm fairly certain that species is poisonous, isn't it?" the Doctor frowned, his gaze a little distant as he recalled the exact source of that information.

"Not lethal, just painful if she gets you," Harry clarified. "But she's promised not to bite anyone I approve of."

"Fine with me, then," Rose smiled. "Jenny's right. She's gorgeous."

Kilat fairly wriggled with delight.

"_I enjoy your nessst matesss. They have great tassste," _she hissed.

"_You say that now, but we're all a bit mad."_

"_I don't know what you mean, human boy. Please feed me a nice, fat cricket when you take me to my new nessst."_

Sir Wibbly made his appearance at that moment. The orange, flat-faced cat hopped up into Jenny's lap and peered over the top of the table at Harry and his new companion.

"_Excellent. A predator. When were you going to tell me about him?"_ Kilat complained, her mood switching rapidly.

Her scales sparked a little.

"Sir Wibbly won't eat you," Harry sighed in exasperation.

At least, he thought the cat didn't seem too upset with him.

"_He's a kneezle. He knows the difference between intelligent life, threats, and prey. Trust me, that look doesn't mean you're in the latter two categories."_

"_And what of the owl I sssmell?"_

"_Even smarter."_

Sir Wibbly hissed in protest and sent Harry a positively piercing glare.

The snake laughed. Harry groaned. His family continued eating dinner as if multi-species conversations happened at every meal.

* * *

**1 September 2013**

August passed in a blur. Rose and the Doctor had already furnished their Hogwarts living quarters, but there were still the last minute things. While Jenny felt nothing but excitement at the prospect of living in a castle year-round, possibly until she graduated from Hogwarts herself, Harry felt mixed emotions. He had dragged his feet throughout the gradual move. He knew he was being sentimental, but they had lived together in their Sutton home since after Jenny was born. Memories of Christmases, birthdays, and impromptu parties swam to the surface of his mind with every item he packed away. He felt like he'd spent ages cataloguing which things held the most value to him, and still, a whole list of tasks and questions remained for him to process.

1) Pick the colour palette for your room.

2) Pets' room? Yes, no, or specific to primary caregiver? (Underline Preference)

3) Choose books/games/keepsakes.

4) Pack wizarding wardrobe for easy access.

5) Double-check bedroom for all the above things.

6) Triple-check bedroom.

7) Lock windows and draw blinds.

8) Charge and activate stasis charm rune array.

It was a fairly short list, but item three posed certain issues. Eventually, though, Harry muddled through. He looked around his bedroom appraisingly and wondered briefly at the ingenuity of expanded, de-weighted spaces. A good third of his considerable library lay within his everything-trunk, along with the majority of his board games. After brief consideration, he also packed the gaming console Tony bought him for his birthday with the intention of modifying it with the Doctor's assistance. So it was that mid-August, he joined in the mad relay of goods through their sitting room fireplace, which the Doctor had temporarily connected to the network for just this purpose. Fortunately, he had also altered it to behave more like a doorway and less like a vacuum cleaner, so the process took less time and fewer bruises than Harry thought it would.

The room he would henceforth use for school holidays came together in shades of pale, soothing greens and light silvery greys with a hint of deep blue thrown in. Hedwig got a special owl recovery and launch spot nestled in the eaves over their great room, while Kilat and Sir Wibbly elected to sleep with their chosen humans. The Hogwarts elves happily managed his wardrobe with magic, and he applied the finishing touches with a few framed photographs for his and a stuffed black dog for his bedside table. The chewed, many-times mended plush toy briefly caused him a pang of nostalgia as he positioned it on the mahogany tabletop. He'd left it at home last year, unwilling to endure the ribbing of his dorm-mates, and he found himself happy to have it nearer even if he hadn't slept or played with the thing since he was seven or so.

The family officially took up residence in the newly remodelled apartments on the twenty-second, closed down the floos to and from the Gallop, slid easily into life at Hogwarts and the village. The Doctor and Rose spent their days at the school, preparing for term. Harry finished his summer homework and quizzed Jenny on magical creatures and herbology, which she enjoyed very much and seemed to have a knack for. Their days ended with flights over Hogsmeade on their brooms (once the Doctor tweaked Jenny's to go as high as she wanted and to trigger an automatic sticking charm at heights greater than six feet from the ground).

The little girl loved it. She made fast friends with the other children in Hogsmeade, and when Harry was busy running, studying, or practicing duelling with Professor Snape, she got to discover Hogwarts. She flew as often as her mum and dad let her, and explored as often as Hagrid or one of the many other staff members were free to accompany her.

For his part, Harry found himself discovering a rather different aspect of the magical institution he never thought he would. Hogwarts had a wholly different effect on him with classes not yet in session. He wandered the empty hallways and their ancient, whispering portraits with a newly kindled sense of wonder. Without the thousand-some students running about the place, the vaulted ceilings seemed to soar higher overhead, the tapestries seemed richer, and the stone became a study in colour. Where once the masonry faded behind flashes and bangs and movement, he spotted signs of wear: a scorch mark from a misaimed hex, lichen or algae where damp had taken hold, and ancient cracks that sprawled like veins across every surface. He reached out his fingers, and he could _feel_ the untold and half-forgotten stories clinging to the ancient place. _Merlin_ had walked those halls over a thousand years prior. Some of the ghosts likely knew him.

"I don't think it's fair," Harry mused one night.

He and the Doctor lay in plush sleeping bags on top of the astronomy tower, both gazing at the stars, both soaking up the _feel_ of their distance and the enormity of space around them.

"What's not?" his dad murmured back.

"So few people get to see this place. So few people know what the world's capable of, and here we are, just basking in it," the boy elaborated. "Wizards don't have to worry about cancer, for example. Hunger, even for the poor, isn't a problem so long as they've got a wand. I just-"

"Time Lords had the same problem, you know," the Doctor said gently. "Our explorers made their way across time and space, and along with the beauty and the wonder came sadness and loss. Slavery, poverty, famine..."

"What did you do?"

The time traveller scoffed and rolled over to grin crinkle-eyed at his son.

"I broke _all_ the rules, when I could. But then-" he sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Great power comes with greater responsibility. People make horrible decisions in ignorance that there's no going back from, and even if I could make it better, I couldn't always make it right. But… Once in a while, once in a very _great_ while, a stroke of brilliance would gift me with the opportunity to save everyone, and no one died. I lived for those moments, son, but they fill a teaspoon when you compare them to the rest. I've done terrible things without knowing it. I imagine the other me is still doing everything he can to be good and still mucking it up just as bad as I did. Maybe worse. Who knows?"

Harry considered the Doctor's wistful words for a long while. He focused on the pulsing majesty of the castle's magic, on the beauty of the sparkling stars, unmarred by artificial lights, and on the fluttery sound of wind through the forest just beyond the grounds' border.

"What happens if the Statute of Secrecy's broken?" he finally asked.

"What do you think?"

The twelve-year-old stared at the ever-bright Jupiter, and soon caught himself looking for Sirius, his godfather's namesake. He fixed his gaze on the glowing speck of distantly burning fusion.

"We're capable of so much good," he whispered. "As a species, I mean. I want to believe we'd come together and make Earth a better place, but I know some people are hateful, and petty, and wilfully ignorant. I don't know how anyone could guarantee those people wouldn't ruin things for everyone."

The Doctor hummed thoughtfully, and Harry relaxed as his long fingers ruffled his hair.

"You're so clever," he praised. "I'm sure you'll figure out the answer someday, and a lot faster than I did."

"Thanks, Dad."

They returned to stargazing until the altitude and wind began cutting through their warming charms, and regretfully vanished the conjured sleeping bags. Harry stretched tiredly, yawning, only to find himself clutched in a tight hug.

"Dad-" he complained.

"You're never too old for hugs, my boy," the Doctor laughed, completely ignoring Harry's wriggling attempts at escape. "Just-"

He sighed, and his son stilled at the strain in the Doctor's voice.

"Just keep this in mind, all right?" he said softly. "You can't blame yourself for wanting to do good. Your mum taught me that. You also have to take full responsibility for everything you do while _trying_ to do good. There are places in the universe where I'm hated and condemned, and they're not all wrong to feel that way. It's more important, I think, to be a good person."

Harry did not quite understand, but he accepted the advice, anyway, and stored it for future reference.

In addition to his rediscovery of the castle itself, the boy also came to the startling conclusion his teachers weren't single-faceted enforcers of order and distributors of knowledge. In abstract, of course, he had acknowledged their mortality. He'd assumed they had lives outside of what they presented to their students, but knowing a thing and _knowing_ it were wholly different experiences. In less than a week before September first, Harry learned so much about his professors that it felt odd to him, somehow. He couldn't quite identify why.

Flitwick, for example, revealed a mischievous side to himself that frankly awed the boy. On a particularly warm and drowsy day, Jenny coaxed him into starting a water balloon fight. When the ammunition finally lay reduced to tiny shreds of multicoloured rubber across the lawns, only Professor Snape and Trelawney remained un-doused solely because he refused to leave the shelter of the castle's walls, and she could not hear the cries of indignation and amusement from her tower.

Even Professor McGonagall sported a mad gleam in her eye and the splotchy robes of a warrior.

Professor Dumbledore had opted for an ancient-looking swimming costume that resembled long underwear, and also bore the signs of the most-targeted among them. Harry spotted bits of balloon clinging to his long whiskers.

He couldn't consolidate the image with what he knew to be true about the Grand Sorcerer, who held responsibility for the majority of his life's difficulties.

And although even Jenny couldn't convince him to play with them on the grounds, Rose successfully coerced Severus Snape into joining them for tea and biscuits nearly every other day. It wasn't that he didn't get along with the professor. On the contrary, Harry very much respected the man and appreciated his guidance and assistance over the past year, but seeing the dour man _smile_ without a hint of sarcasm to the expression deeply disturbed him.

It all made Harry's head hurt a bit.

So when confronted with the prospect of riding all day on the Hogwarts Express to school when he officially lived in the castle, he felt the last of his processing power evaporate.

"But why?" he insisted a little desperately. "It makes no sense whatsoever!"

"Security, student safety, and tradition, I imagine," the Doctor said in his most posh voice. "I'll drop you at the station after I get Jenny to school. Pack your uniform and a lunch in your school bag and leave your trunk with us. We'll have… Cuddie?"

Harry nodded.

"Deliver it to your dormitory," he finished. "Ah, and Tony made you a lovely little pouch to carry Kilat in."

Harry absently slipped the rather pretty wool-lined drawstring leather pouch over his head and tucked it under his robes. Kilat hissed happily when he lowered her into it.

"_Very warm,"_ she said appreciatively.

The morning of the first dawned brilliantly bright and warm. Jenny, who had wanted to go out and ride her broom attempted to argue her cause while her brother held an argument with Sir Wibbly, who desperately wanted to ride the train.

"I've already got Kilat, and Hedwig's staying here. It's going to be noisy, crowded, and full of careless teenagers. I don't know why you're getting so huffy."

The orange part-kneazle gave him a withering glare and meowed stubbornly.

Harry groaned and stared at the ceiling.

"Have you asked Mum and Dad?"

Sir Wibbly twitched his bottlebrush tail irritably.

"Well, if you already asked them, and they said no, why'd you ask me?"

The cat turned its back on him and walked off with its nose held in the air. Harry sighed and went back to eating breakfast.

At eight thirty with school bag in hand, the second-year met the Doctor in their modest sitting room in front of the fireplace.

"Ready?" he asked, looking his son over.

Harry nodded.

"Rose, Jenny, we're off!" he called through the house.

"See you soon, Harry!"

"You'd better come flying with me this weekend, Harry!" Jenny shouted.

"Alright," the Doctor said, waving his son forward. "Platform 9 ¾. Wait for me when you get there."

Harry stepped into the green flames and a moment later, felt sure he'd gotten whiplash. Unfortunately, the Doctor's alterations could not be applied to the castle's secure one-way floos. His head spun momentarily, while the platform buzzed with the usual rush of activity around him. Harry gulped air after he finished coughing ash and hitched his bag a little higher on his back. Everywhere, he saw families bidding goodbye to their children. The Doctor shot out of the floo a moment later to gave him a hug and clasp his shoulder.

"Got everything?"

"Yeah."

"Have some spending money, too?"

Harry nodded.

"Alright. I'll see you in a few hours. Off you go."

The Slytherin boarded the train after helping some struggling first years and set off to find Hermione's compartment, since she always arrived earliest to any occasion out of all of their friends. He looked in nearly all the compartments until he came to the last in the second carriage from the end.

"Hi," he said a little anticlimactically even as he beamed about.

He was the last to arrive: Hermione, Daphne, Draco, Blaise, Tracy, Hannah, Susan and Neville sat inside the largest compartment he'd seen on the train aside from the prefects' carriages at the front. The standard carriage held seven adjacent compartments, which in turn contained facing seating for eight very thin people in addition to a foldaway tabletop.

This compartment, however, stretched half again longer than the standard ones. A wide bench of blue velvet spanned the space beneath a wide window in addition to the regular seating to the left and right, where Hannah, Susan and Hermione chatted together. Draco, Tracy and Neville occupied the opposite, the first two speaking lowly, and the latter reading a copy of _Herbologist's Monthly_. Daphne and Blaise had already begun a game of exploding snap on one of the three coffee tables standing about the room. In all, Harry though it a vast improvement to the cramped trip home earlier that summer.

"Where's your trunk?" Hermione asked, helpfully sliding the door closed behind him.

"Already at the castle."

The Hufflepuff threw her arms around Harry's neck as soon as he tucked his bag into the overhead wrack.

"Force of habit," she resumed in response to their unfinished dialogue. "How are they liking their quarters? Tell me _everything_ about your summer. Did you and Neville really have a picnic in a tropical rainforest? What did you think of your essays?"

"Let him sit down, at least," Daphne said lightly with a roll of her eyes. "One would think you haven't written all summer."

Harry threw himself happily onto the bench beneath the window. Susan's owl, perched on the wrack overhead, eyed him disapprovingly for causing the polished brass bars shudder. He thought it resembled its mistress's guardian and wondered whether Madam Bones had picked it out for that very reason.

"Did you ever figure out what that was?" Hermione continued undeterred. "Your post problems, that is."

Harry nodded.

"Yeah. It's complicated. An overprotective elf was trying to convince me in a roundabout way to stay home from Hogwarts this year," he said drily. "It was sweet of him, but a bit frustrating."

"That sounds bad," Neville groaned. "I pretty much forgot all about that since you called. I was really hoping for a nice, quiet year."

Draco snorted and waggled his perfectly groomed brows suggestively.

"Don't count on it. Harry Potter's whole life seems to be one horrid scramble of unseemly excitement. He can't even go into a store without causing a riot."

His friend shoved his shoulder lightly and sighed.

"Prior to last year, 'unseemly excitement' was a lot of fun. No evil wizards, no life-threatening obstacles. Just extraterrestrials and laughing in the face of widely accepted physics."

Hermione huffed at the last while the others brushed off their mild confusion. Most of the wizard-raised in his acquaintance had learned long ago not to question Harry's assertions if they didn't want what they held as truth rudely inverted. Most waited to reach a certain frame of mind before inquiring after the fantastical things he spewed.

"Anyway," Susan laughed before anyone could break that rule. "We never did hear what was really in there. Don't you think the story's overdue?"

Daphne, Draco, Hermione, Neville and Harry all avoided making eye contact.

"We don't have the slightest idea what you're on about, Bones," Daphne said primly. "Why ever would you think we _didn't _fight a dragon?"

"That's just a rumour. How would they even fit a dragon?" Blaise huffed doubtfully. "You can't put one in a magically enlarged space and you certainly can't shrink one."

"You're assuming it was a full grown, dragon, though," Draco suggested with a smirk.

The others of the Corridor Quintet (so called by the rest of them) shared a look and succumbed to uncontrollable giggles.


	5. Back Again

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Here you go! Real life is starting back up again, so I may have to start posting weekly or bi-weekly rather than the insane pace I set for the last book. Thanks for your continued interest and for taking the time to read.

* * *

Chapter Five – Back Again

* * *

The rest of the journey from London to Hogsmeade Station passed in a blur of sweets and lively conversation. Hermione especially enjoyed hearing about Neville and Harry's zeppelin ride.

"We took a cruise-class LuxeAir 220 to France because Mum hates planes, but it wasn't anything near so wonderful as a rainforest. We did have our own suite, though."

"I'll ask Mum and Dad if we can all go again, sometime," Harry promised. "It was pretty amazing."

Hannah blinked between the two of them, and her brow furrowed.

"What're you on about?"

When she continued her inquiry after Neville's airborne boat description, Hermione eagerly launched into an explanation of what zeppelins were and how they worked so thorough that even the unflappable Blaise leaned forward in interest. Susan, whose ken included much about the modern non-magical world from exposure through her aunt's line of work, helped translate the scientific terms for a wizarding audience.

"So, it's like a giant balloon?"

"Basically," Harry agreed.

"And it's got a compartment, sort of like a ship's cabin, underneath for people to ride in?"

"Exactly," Hermione nodded.

"And it doesn't use magic?" Blaise said doubtfully. "I know muggles are clever and all, but you can't just make something fly without help."

"Where non-magical people lack in magic they do with technology," Harry said for what felt like the millionth time since first learning about Hogwarts.

"It really does work," Hermione assured her disbelieving friends. "Look, if it's that difficult to imagine, we'll build a miniature one together."

"Oh, Jenny'll like that. How big should we make it?" Harry said, rubbing his hands together. "You've got to specify the scale, here."

"We can't make it big enough to ride in," Hermione scoffed.

"Then how are you going to prove it works, really?" Draco grumbled. "If you don't put anyone in the cabin, you haven't proved anything."

"We'll make it big enough for a six-year-old," Harry insisted. "My sister's always wanted an airship."

"No magic allowed, agreed?" Susan suggested.

Tracy stared around at them all like they were mad.

"Is _anyone_ going to comment on putting a six-year-old in an experimental flying vehicle and giving her the steering wheel?" she demanded. "You're all bonkers or supremely confident. I can't tell which."

Hermione and Harry grinned.

"We accept your challenge," he said, ignoring Tracy's interjection. "We'll ask mum to requisition the materials this weekend."

They pulled into the station shortly thereafter, and the quintet separated from the others to find one of the carriages waiting to carry them off. The thestrals pulling them padded the ground silently. Harry watched his friends' expressions. He felt fairly certain from the way they approached the vehicle that all of them could see the leathery, skeletal, winged horse, but no one commented to confirm his suspicion before or after they climbed in and shut the door bearing the Hogwarts crest behind them.

Excitement overwhelmed Harry's melancholy as the line of steadily moving carriages passed through the wrought iron gates guarding the road to the castle, where two hulking winged boars of weathered stone stood as sentries on either side. Their granite snouts twitched as each carriage drove past.

"I hope they've got fruit tarts for pudding," Neville said as the castle's brilliant windows came into view on the horizon. "I'm starving."

Harry practically bounced in his seat by the time they pulled to a stop before the main steps. A sea of black-robed students poured through the soaring entrance, their pointed hats casting spiky shadows behind them. Harry barely fought down the impulse the push past them, unwilling to be caught in so closely pressed a crowd after Diagon Alley. Finally, they swept into the great hall, and the uncomfortable closeness eased with the students' dispersal among their houses. Neville and Hermione gave their Slytherin friends a short wave as they disappeared among them. Harry immediately began scanning the head table.

He found them near the end, where Rose beamed down at him from Snape's side with the Doctor next to her. He talked animatedly with Professor Flitwick, and Harry could tell by the animation of his dynamic eyebrows that he found thorough entertainment in the conversation. Snape's eyes found Harry after his parents waved to him. He nodded subtly, and Harry smiled unreservedly. Already, Hogwarts seemed a brighter place for his family's presence. Snape looked decidedly less crotchety than he had for the entirety of the last year, he could see his sister every day if he wanted, and his parents were there to keep the Headmaster in line. Harry only looked away when sitting required it.

"Your mother's even prettier in person," Draco complimented as they sat nearest the head table, in a perfect position to view the rest of the hall. "But who's that waving at you?"

Harry turned and groaned. There, seated on McGonagall's left, was the last person Harry wanted to see in the defence professor's post.

"Is that Gilderoy Lockhart?" Daphne hissed indignantly. "But his books are awful. They're more an extended autobiography than anything else."

"How can you say that?" Pansy Parkinson snapped. "Just because he's prettier than you–"

"Believe me," Daphne interrupted in a tone of bored dismissal. "If I begin to desire your dubious opinion, I shall notify you. Otherwise, please do keep that awful whinging voice to yourself."

Blaise, a few seats down, choked back a laugh. Draco smirked.

Whispers began sweeping the halls. Those who recognised Lockhart easily filled in the others, and everyone correctly assumed he would be taking the defence professorship for the year. No one, however, seemed to know who the two strangers were.

"Are they together?"

"He's proper gorgeous–"

"Have you ever seen a Hogwarts professor you'd actually want to–"

Harry very deliberately tuned out the older boys' commentary after that.

"What do you think she'll teach?"

"Did they create a new class?"

"Who are they?"

"Who is she?"

"Fabulous dress sense–"

Finally the main doors opened again, and McGonagall led in the first-years, immediately blanketing the hall with a buzzing, anticipatory calm.

"Oh, that one looks like she fell in the lake," Tracy said sympathetically, nodding to a particularly small girl with large blue eyes and sheets of water-darkened blonde hair.

McGonagall absently cast a drying charm at her once the first-years came to a stop. Everyone eyed the ancient Sorting Hat, and dutifully applauded its song. The first-years seemed to understand their trial had begun, and all started shifting anxiously in their neat little queue. Harry counted only a few more than in his own year, and he wondered whether they had looked as terrified before their sorting.

McGonagall unfurled her list with a practiced, economical twitch of her wrist, and a deeper hush settled over the great hall.

_Aubrey, Beth_ was the first to be sorted. The little brunette hopped eagerly onto the stool. The hat had barely touched her head when it shouted:

"_GRYFFINDOR!"_

And so it went. The girl who looked like she fell in the lake ended up in Ravenclaw. She skipped the whole way to her table, where her housemates whooped and hollered. Harry's stomach grumbled. He absently noted Ginevra 'Ginny' Weasley joined Beth in Gryffindor. Only five remained, now. The boy felt very glad McGonagall had nearly exhausted her list.

Finally, Edward Zuirl joined the Gryffindors, too, and the hall exploded in applause. As before last year's feast, Professor Dumbledore had the decency to hold off on long announcements until after they had the chance to satisfy their bellies.

"Tuck in!" he simply said.

"Hear, hear!" the Weasley twins shouted in unison.

Nearly everyone laughed. Platters of delicious food appeared on the table, and only eleven years of hard-learned table manners kept Harry from ripping into the beautiful pheasant before him with both hands as Ron Weasley was doing two tables away. He couldn't help but notice the boy more often than other people he mildly disliked, and thought perhaps Ron exasperated him more often than most since he liked the boy's older brothers so well.

At his sides, conversation around the table picked back up where it left off.

"So, does _anyone_ know who the beautiful witch is?" Adrian Pucey asked.

"Why?" Draco laughed. "Wanting to court her?"

"She's a little out of your league," Blaise said playfully. "_Leagues_ out of your league, really."

"Don't be stupid." Adrian rolled his eyes. "I'm just curious."

"She's _Mrs_ Roselyn Smith," Daphne said primly. "And the gorgeous one–"

Harry shuddered at the look on her face. It was too weird to have people _admire_ his mum and dad that way.

"–is _Mr_ John Smith."

"How do _you_ know, Greengrass?" Parkinson sneered.

Daphne smiled sweetly at Harry. He sent her a pleading look, but the girl either ignored or did not recognize his silent appeal.

"Because they're Harry's mum and dad."

Sharp, calculating eyes turned on him, and Harry found himself the centre of an inquisition much greater than the one he faced last year. Word spread like mad down the Slytherin table and across the hall until the volume level raised several decibels, and many students craned in their seats to see Mr and Mrs Smith better.

"What are they going to teach?"

"I thought they were muggles!"

"Are they related to the Smiths of Exeter?"

When the puddings lay thoroughly demolished and it was time for Dumbledore to speak again, the headmaster had to let off a cannon blast before the hall returned to a semblance of peace.

"Thank you for your attention," he said mildly, his beard twitching with obvious amusement. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! If you are returning, I am very glad to share some very exciting changes with you all. If you have just joined us, I am sure you shall benefit greatly from these new measures. As you no doubt have noticed, we have the honour of welcoming not one, but three new professors to our staff this year."

The Professor paused and smiled when his students contained their obvious curiosity.

"In addition to Mr Gilderoy Lockhart, your new professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts, it is my great pleasure to introduce Mrs Roselyn Smith, Professor for Non-Magical Culture. This subject shall be replacing the class previously known as Muggle Studies. Dear Professor Lumsden–"

A burly Scott Harry vaguely recognised rose and waved to everyone.

"–Graciously agreed to teach a new subject, Wizarding Law and Etiquette, which, after careful consideration of the school board, shall be mandatory for all students from first to third years."

This produced a response from nearly everyone. Many groaned in disappointment at the added workload, and none more loudly than the boys of Gryffindor. The Hufflepuffs seemed mostly accepting, the Ravenclaws excited, and the Slytherins, per their usual habit, whispered among themselves. Harry sat a little straighter. He hadn't known about that, but supposed it made sense. Perhaps the Doctor had come up with the idea to keep Mr Lumsden happy.

"Professor Smith brings joins us with a Mastery of Non-Magical Cultures and Sciences from the Melbourne Academy of Higher Magical Study and a Mastery of Social Sciences from Oxford University, a most prestigious muggle school of higher learning. In addition to teaching her Non-Magical Culture, she will be offering a select group of students aside from her own the opportunity of off-grounds expeditions, which will be announced ahead of time and shall require the permission of a parent or guardian. If you have questions, her office hours shall be posted in your common rooms along with her colleagues'. Please join me in welcoming her to Hogwarts."

Harry and his friends clapped the loudest as his mum stood and nodded to them all, a huge smile on her face. Several boys whistled, to which Harry tried not to wince. It was too weird. He knew his mum was pretty, but he felt embarrassed on behalf of his gender and not a little uncomfortable. Professor Dumbledore smiled around at them all indulgently, and eventually raised his hands for silence. The ghost of Professor Binns floated through the floor to hover beside him. Everyone began murmuring all at once: He _never_ left his classroom.

"For over a century, Hogwarts has been blessed with the honourable Cuthbert Binns' wonderful teaching. Indeed, so dedicated was he in his efforts to educate young minds, he could not leave his post until a teacher of equal or greater calibre could be found. I find it bittersweet, then, to ask you all to join me in applauding Professor Binns in his remarkable performance as he formally retires from his post."

The acclamation was slower this time and a little hesitant. No one _enjoyed_ Binns' classes, but they _did_ afford an extra naptime to anyone so inclined. Binns bowed around at them all and promptly sunk back through the floor.

"Professor Binns has graciously offered himself as an assistant librarian to Madam Pince. He shall always be available for students desirous of extra assistance in history."

A few students snickered at the unlikelihood of anyone taking him up on the offer.

"It is, therefore, a great pleasure to announce his successor: Mr John Smith, Doctor of History, Sociology, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Medicine, Psychology…"

Many of the non-magically raised began murmuring in amazement as the headmaster glanced over his half-moon spectacles at his podium.

"Actually, this list is quite long, so I shall shorten things by assuring you Mr Smith holds just about every Degree of higher education available to muggles, in addition to internationally certified Masteries in Charms, Transfiguration, Magical Theory, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Healing and History."

The murmuring became a smidge incredulous. The professor responded by raising his voice by a few decibels.

"He will be taking up Professorship for History of Magic. I am sure, after seeing his lesson plans, that you shall thoroughly enjoy his class. He has also generously offered to teach monthly weekend seminars. Any O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. student who would like to revise in his subject may sign up in his common room."

Despite the students' mixed feelings about the class, nearly everyone clapped (the girls most loudly of all) as the Doctor bowed and waved. It died more quickly than the applause for Rose, to her obvious satisfaction. She winked at her husband, who shrugged and smiled unconcernedly back at her.

"Finally," Dumbledore continued once quiet reigned again, "I must remind you all the Forbidden Forest remains, indeed, forbidden. Also, Mr Filch has refreshed the list of banned items. It has been posted in each of your common rooms and on his office door for your perusal. Quidditch tryouts shall be held on the third Saturday of this month. Please check with your head of house and quidditch captains if you are interested in playing for your team."

The headmaster twinkled at them all as if being among them were his greatest joy and clapped his hands together. The plates, leftovers and cutlery vanished, leaving behind spotless tables.

"Thank you all for your attention. Now, pip, pip! Off to bed."

Harry lingered as his housemates milled toward the door. He caught his parents' eye and waved before following the other Slytherins out of the great hall.

…

A Slytherin in want of information was a thing to witness. Harry should have known how excitable his housemates were sure to be after so momentous a welcoming feast, but for whatever reason, he forgot exactly how determined they could be.

They laid in wait, crammed into the common room, when he entered. Harry goggled momentarily at them all. Usually, the space felt rather intimate, big enough to fit perhaps fifty people at most (uncomfortably); however, it seemed nearly all two hundred-some Slytherins gathered throughout the den.

"Is it bigger in here?" he asked absently as Daphne and Draco stepped through the doorway to flank him.

"Of course it is," Draco murmured after a quick look around. "How else do you think they did the common room feast last Halloween?"

"He probably assumed a buffet and year group study room situation," Daphne whispered.

The seventh-year head prefects, Terrance Higgs and Bridget Blishwick, set off a couple flash bangs, and the clamouring shouts for Harry's attention faded out.

"Right. Professor Snape will be here momentarily," said Bridget with a stern look at the underclassmen. "And we have class in the morning, so I propose we handle this with the dignity I know you all to possess."

"Blishwick and I have discussed it, and with Potter's permission, we would like to have a question-and-answer session tomorrow at eight o'clock, here in the common room. In the meantime, please put your questions in this box."

Terrance waved his wand at a lump of firewood, which levitated to the centremost coffee table and morphed into a plain oaken box with a little slot at the top.

"Well, Potter? Do you agree?" he prompted.

Everyone stared to look Harry where he'd stopped by the entrance. He weighed their faces, which ranged from curious to frustrated, and finally gave a shrug.

"Fine with me. Obviously, I reserve the right to dismiss any question I find too personal. Other than that, I suppose a little foreknowledge would set you lot up for more points."

"Excellent. Thank you for your graciousness," Bridget nodded. "Now, everyone above first year should go to bed. Breakfast begins at half past six and ends at nine if you're lucky enough not to have a lesson scheduled for eight-thirty. Higgs and I shall have timetables delivered to your rooms by eight."

On that note, Harry, Draco and Blaise retired to their beds, wholly ignoring Nott, who shouted questions after them as soon as they entered their common study. Harry breathed a sigh as his door swung shut behind him. The magical wards built into the wood by an especially thoughtful past head-of-house hummed to live, and Hedwig, who sat on her perch, gave a gentle screech of welcome. Her human spent several moments stroking her soft feathers before she flew off to hunt.

"_I can tell you enjoy thisss,"_ Kilat hissed in Harry's ear after he lay down for the night.

Harry yawned and gently brushed a finger over the little snake's tiny head.

"_I grew up around a certain level of chaos," _he said tiredly._ "Besides, I'd put up with nosiness any day to keep my parents around. Last year was awful."_


	6. The Smiths go to School

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Sorry, again, for the wait, everyone! And thank you so much for your kind wishes. The job hunt's hectic, but I'm hopeful something will crop up, soon! Thanks for your continued interest and for taking the time to read.

* * *

Chapter Six – The Smiths go to School

* * *

**2 September 2013**

Jenny Renette yawned hugely as she blinked open her eyes. She shivered a little beneath her fluffy duvet, and marvelled for a moment at her not-yet familiar surroundings.

An aged, vaulted ceiling soared above her bed. Thick, luxurious fabric stitched with woodland creatures and vines hung in the spaces between the ribs (to keep it from being too draughty, her dad had said) and flowed to the floor behind the shelving, armoire, and other furniture that had been pushed against the walls to make space for her massive four-poster bed.

Jenny had never wanted to be a princess – she rather thought the girls at school were silly for thinking that way – but, after spending her first night in a _real_ enchanted castle, she couldn't help feeling like one, or perhaps a queen. Hogwarts was truly magical, beyond the ways wizards saw it. She smiled a little to herself as she stood and slipped into her dressing gown. The small living room already crackled with a merry fire, and Rose sat on the loveseat sipping chilli-spiced hot chocolate. A small whipped-cream moustache clung to her upper lip, but she hadn't noticed around reading the latest news in the _Daily Prophet_.

"Morning, Mum," Jenny chirped, hopping onto the loveseat beside her. "Anything interesting?"

"Not much," she hummed and absently wrapped an arm around Jenny's waist in a lateral hug. "Usual nonsense. I've found a least favourite reporter already. This Rita Skeeter woman's written this horrible, fawning piece about the wonderful Professor Lockhart."

Jenny wrinkled her nose at the overblown photograph featuring an unpleasant-looking woman beside a larger shot comprised of the preening blonde, who cycled between grinning and waggling his brows.

"Didn't Daddy say you two would probably make the paper?"

The Doctor poked his head out of the kitchen, a bit of bacon clenched between his teeth.

"Too early, yet," he managed around the nibblet. It'll take them at least today to get a good enough story together. I'm sure the _Prophet_ wouldn't pass up a chance to report on the famous Harry Potter's parents."

"Will _I_ be in the story?"

Mr and Mrs Tyler exchanged a wary look.

"Darling," Rose said gently. "We don't _want_ to be in the paper, and we definitely don't want you to be, either. I know magic seems like this wonderful thing – and it is, don't get me wrong – but wizards and witches are just like everyone else. There are good and bad ones, and unfortunately, some of those bad ones don't like Harry, and wouldn't think twice about hurting his kid sister. The less attention we bring to you, the better."

Jenny shifted in her seat and pouted.

"So its dangerous?"

The Doctor nodded.

"That's why you're not to wander the castle without us so long as school's in session," the Doctor said. "While most of the professors seem all right, excepting a couple, I wouldn't put it past some of the kids or their parents to want to do you wrong."

The little girl accepted the cup of cocoa and the plated breakfast her father offered her. She contemplated her eggs and bacon with more solemnity than usual to a child of six, nearly seven.

"Is that why Harry ended up in the hospital in the spring?"

Rose sighed and pulled her daughter into her lap.

"You're very perceptive, and that's good, but we didn't tell you this to make you worry. We just want you to be aware."

Jenny Renette kicked her slippered feet anxiously.

"But Mummy, I don't understand," she prodded uncertainly. "If people want to hurt Harry, why don't we go somewhere else? Isn't there a magical school in France?"

The Doctor sat on the floor in front of his daughter and shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth with a wry smile.

"We'd go if Harry wanted to."

Rose poked her youngest in the ribs to urge her to eat her rapidly cooling food and slowly began detangling her long, red hair with a gentle touch.

"He said it'd be running, and that it wouldn't be right to run," she murmured.

"Why not?" the girl said around a mouthful of eggs.

"Tylers-sometimes-Smiths never run because they're scared, and they help when they can. Harry thinks he can help, and he's stubborn and resourceful enough to find a way to do it abroad without our help. Honestly, we'd rather support him and know what's going on than walk around in the dark."

Jenny wore a thoughtful expression while her mum and dad finished their breakfasts and joined her dressing for school, but asked no further questions on the subject. Fifteen minutes before eight and dressed in his customary blue pinstripe suit, the Doctor escorted her through the floo to the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. She held tightly to his hand for the quick apparition to Seaton House School, exited the broom cupboard her father had brought her to, and joined the kids headed to her second-form class. Her parents, on the other hand, considered her questions long through the morning, and both wondered whether they had made the right choice.

Nine o'clock was fast approaching, though, and it was the first day of classes for the newly minted professors, so they quickly shelved those worries for later discussion. The bells tolled long and loud over the grounds, and the castle rumbled with a thousand feet wandering through its halls in pursuit of different classrooms.

"Allons-y, Professor Smith," the Doctor crowed, looping his arm through his wife's.

"Indeed, Professor Smith," Rose grinned cheekily.

* * *

Pepper-up potions, in addition to providing near immediate cure for all sorts of non-magical colds and viruses, acted as a stimulant and allergy remedy. Its only side effects were a rather dramatic issuance of steam from the patient's ears and slight mania not uncommon to any stimulant – If one didn't count the increased thirst some experienced due to the potion's extremely spicy flavour. In fact, the name "Pepper-up," aside from playing on the word 'pep,' referenced its most important ingredient. Harry had looked at a recipe once and was horrified to discover it used a whole chopped Bhut jolokia (or ghost) chilli for each two-litre batch, in addition to a gram of fresh ginger, honey, a quarter-pound brick of dark chocolate, one gram of shavings from Nux Myristica, two gumweeds, and a fluid ounce of dragon's blood.

So, despite having fewer hours of sleep than they would like but with a readily available cure-all, most students traditionally arrived early at breakfast for the first day of classes. The vast majority appeared overly excited to be there. Harry, who still woke often from nightmares, was no exception to the rule. Unlike his peers, he also had a private stash, which led to interesting behaviour at breakfast. Daphne shot him odd looks as he cajoled Draco into competing to see who could make the most impressive construction out of his bacon. Blaise and Tracy watched in amusement and took bets on who would win. The upper years ignored them, but only because they tried to affect an uninterested air in all things concerning Harry Potter and the scion of House Malfoy while in view of the general public.

At the end of breakfast, the second-years returned to their dorms to discover another surprise.

"We don't have _any_ classes with Gryffindor," Draco observed while Harry fetched his books. "Most of them are with Hufflepuff, according to Nott. I don't think that's happened in years."

"Only a couple," Harry corrected. "A prefect told me last year Dumbledore rearranged things for an experiment. Maybe he's tired of seeing no results."

"Right," the blonde sneered. "And Kilat's a warty toad."

The snake poked her head out of Harry's collar to glare at the boy, hissing angrily.

"_Sarcasm," _Harry explained quickly. _"He thinks you're very pretty."_

Despite her promise not to bite anyone he liked, he wasn't sure the oath would extend to those who insulted her vanity. She was exceedingly proud of her shimmering scales and serpentine beauty.

"_It had better be,"_ she hissed back.

Draco shuddered

"You have got to be less casual about that," he grumbled. "Even among Slytherins, it's a gift to fear. Aside from Salazar, You-Know-Who's the last known wizard in Britain to use it in the last millennia."

"Merlin was a parselmouth, too," Harry complained.

"Yes, but Merlin was born in the seven hundreds, and most people regard him as the founder of our society," the blonde countered drily. "He could have destroyed Europe and most of Asia, and no one would care to remember."

"All hail Dark Lord Merlin," Harry huffed.

"It's funny you think you're joking."

Draco laughed a little giddily and led the way out of the dormitories.

The second-year potions class outwardly looked much the same as it had for first year, except it took place in the lab adjacent – Marked as Lab 1B on his schedule – and shelves of protective garments bordered the door at either side. Since he had already established himself as a deliverer of swift and often undeserved ire, Professor Snape also saw no need to make a grand, sweeping entrance. Rather, he stood at the centre of the room when the door finally swung open to admit his queuing students.

"Do not enter this room without an apron, eyewear, and dragonhide gloves. You need not don them right away," he thrummed in his cold baritone. "Unless you are a Hufflepuff, that is. Who knows what malady may befall you, otherwise?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at that and pointedly slung her gear over her arm before dragging Harry to sit by her at the rear left corner of the room. Most of her housemates weren't so brave, but to their surprise, the professor made no further comment until his students occupied their workbenches. He allowed the shuffling of parchment, books, and sundry for exactly two minutes before flicking his wand impatiently. Anything not stowed rapidly shoved itself into its owner's bag, which jerked from surprised hands to hang off the hooks edging each workbench.

"Now that you're finished," the professor murmured. "We shall begin with the perfunctory lecture on safety: If you don't have the common sense to follow directions, conduct yourself with constant self awareness, and maintain meticulous cleanliness, you will likely hurt yourself and your friends, and also earn my ire."

Most of the Slytherins laughed mutedly, and even Harry smiled a bit. He wondered whether he would have come to appreciate Snape's dry humour and endless sarcasm without frequent exposure to the man over the past year and summer. Most of the Hufflepuffs reacted with fear at his assertion, and contrary to popular belief, most were clever enough, so he thought not.

The rest of the lesson featured an overview of the term's syllabus, to include a refresher on the interactions and qualities of common potions ingredients, followed by short round of ingredient preparation for the next lesson.

"When we next meet, we shall begin class by observing the effects of different preparation methods on the properties of ashwinder scales," Snape said a few moments before the hour's conclusion. "Therefore, each of you will study these effects and create a chart cataloguing them for your personal reference. If you arrive without completing the assignment, you will receive no marks for the day. Your homework score will be weighted by your performance during the lesson."

He turned to reset the room for his next second-year lesson, and the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs departed in a haze of anxious disbelief.

"He's having us on," Hannah grumbled to Susan and Hermione. "Lulling us into a false sense of security so we panic when he goes back to that 'Instructions are on the board. You have an hour' nonsense."

Susan shrugged and Hermione grimaced.

"You're probably right about him messing us about," Harry offered lightly. "He's the type to enjoy driving you mad with anxiety over when he'll revert, but I think he may have adjusted his methods for the sake of his own sanity."

"Sorry," Susan quipped. "I thought you put 'sanity' and 'Severus Snape' in the same sentence. I think I can hear the former crying already."

"What is it with you and personifying non-beings?" the Slytherin complained.

"I'm just glad we only lost twenty points," Hermione wryly interjected. "Most of them even had almost valid reasoning behind them."

Several other Hufflepuffs made begrudging noises of agreement, and the houses split as they returned to the main floor, the Badgers for Transfiguration and the Snakes for Defence.

Harry shared a look with Draco when they entered the bright, airy classroom. The juvenile dragon skeleton, affectionately called 'Henry,' still hung from the ceiling like a bony, animated mobile. Innumerable drawings and diagrams of dangerous creatures still adorned the walls. The same badly damaged and scorched duelling dummies lay beneath the windows on the east side of the room; however, the new décor felt so awkward it managed to create an entirely foreign-feeling environment.

From every flat surface, the same face peered at the entering students. Lockharts dressed in garish, frilly, eighteenth century French-inspired robes of every colour and pattern winked, smiled, and waggled eyebrows at the Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Kilat hissed anxiously in the pouch against Harry's collarbone.

"_Human younglingsss' hormonesss are ssstrange,"_ she complained. _"It tastesss unpleasssant."_

He shuddered a little at the thought. Draco smirked beside him and proceeded to mime one of the largest portraits, in which their parading professor seemingly bellowed while swinging a sword a too big for him. The figure wobbled dangerously upon his perch, constantly threatening to fall sideways out of the frame. Several of their housemates snickered, but Daphne rolled her eyes and dragged him to sit with her at the back of the room.

"Now that was a lovely memory!" a too-cheery voice crowed.

Draco and Blaise immediately took seats in the desk in front of theirs. They tried not to laugh while Lockhart, clad in periwinkle robes embroidered with silver embellishments over a white and silver frilly shirt, descended the curved stairs leading to his private apartments. Harry felt sorely tempted to send a low-powered banishing charm at the man's hair to check if it were real, so perfect were the golden curls.

"The painter, you see, decided he knew better than I how a hero should be depicted, but when I attempted to use my sword for the portrait – the very blade I used to slay the Werewolf of Maramures – the painter said it was too small," the professor elaborated. "He cast the engorgement charm a little overzealously, but he insisted it was the perfect size to represent the weight of my duty as a fighter against the dark forces."

Many of the girls in the class had taken on a dreamy look to their eyes, Hermione included, though Daphne and Tracy, Harry was glad to see, remained unimpressed.

"When he finished with the likeness, he felt badly about his mistake, but I found it so very entertaining, I decided to leave it as is. I do admit the weapon shines far more impressively upon my wall."

He flourished to the highly polished sword mounted on above his desk, which glinted so brightly Harry swore there must be a charm on it.

"Anyhow, I hope to have the time to tell you exactly how each of these portraits came to be as we explore, together, how to best fight dark creatures over the course of this term," Lockhart said as he strolled to the front of the classroom.

"I am, of course, Gilderoy Lockhart, five-time winner of _Witch Weekly_'s most charming smile award, Order of Merlin, third class, and honorary member of the Dark Force Defence League."

He turned with a flourish of his cape, which he wore tied across his back over the ostentatious robe. Several of the girls, Pansy Parkinson and several Ravenclaws Harry wasn't too familiar with, sighed in a way he could only describe as 'longing.' Daphne and Tracy, on the other hand, looked vaguely annoyed to those who could read their twitching brows and tapping fingers, respectively.

"Let's start with a little post-holiday exam to see how much you've read, so far. Nothing too difficult, I assure you! Completion marks and bonus points for every correct answer."

The class hummed either disapproval or excitement (in the case of some overeager Ravenclaws and Parkinson), and it only got worse from there. He got a whiff of sickly-sweet vanilla tinged sandalwood as the professor passed and glared at the assignment.

He blinked, glanced at Daphne, and stared incredulously back at the parchment before him while shuffling announced his classmates' resignation to the three-page long assignment. After ensuring he'd read the questions correctly, he sat back in his chair only to find Draco wearing the same dumfounded expression he imaged for himself.

"_What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?_" the blonde whispered. "Is he serious?"

"Have you read question fifty-four, yet?" Harry hissed back.

The prompt, written in crisp blackletter, asked:

_What is Gilderoy Lockhart's ideal birthday gift?_

A good portion of the classroom, aside form obvious fans whose quills scratched madly across their parchments, seemed to have fallen into a state of shock. Several whispered conversations later, everyone came to a consensus as to the assignment's veracity, so at the half-hour mark, Lockhart collected everyone's work, guaranteeing full marks for all.

It seemed the class had disagreed on how to answer; however, and as Lockhart began reading their answers aloud, the second-years quickly realised the remainder of class would be an exercise in self-control.

"Ah, here we go-" he waggled his brows in apparent anticipation. "Let's see how this one did."

Harry rolled his eyes as the professor's gaze turned to him.

"Harry, Harry, Harry…" he hummed to himself and scanned the form. "You'll have to study a lot harder to succeed in my class. For example, my perfect birthday gift is not, as you put it-"

The boy in question carefully kept his face blank. Across the room, a couple of the Ravenclaws he was friendlier with, Sue Li and Anthony Goldstein, snickered behind their respective stacks of smiling, winking books.

"-To dance with a garters-and-lipstick-wearing unicorn under the full moon while a flock of swans serenade us in celebration of our…" the professor trailed off with a high, nervous laugh. "Anyhow, Harry, you would have found the answer if you had read chapter six of _Gadding With Ghouls_, where I clearly state my ideal present would be to have succeeded in my ambition to unite the muggles, magicals, and creatures in one peaceful society."

Hardly anyone heard his correction over the incredulous laughter.

"Similarly," he said once the guffaws at his expense (something Harry thought the professor must not have realised) had quieted. "My favourite pastime is experimental spell-making, particularly with work on those intended for healing and defensive purposes, _not_, as you said, 'raising up a lovely crop of dental floss'."

The giggles broke out anew, and only grew in volume as the Professor's patronising expression morphed around his uncontrollably moving lips, which seemed incapable of stopping the flood of nonsense suddenly pouring out of Lockhart in song.

"Movin' to Montana soon, gonna be a Dental Floss tycoon! Movin' to Montana soon, gona be a mennil-toss flykune-"

Harry breathed in and out through his nose and mentally sung the mirrored spelling of 'God Save the Queen' backwards in his head to avoid joining Terry Boot in paroxysms of laughter, which the Ravenclaw badly disguised as coughing.

"-Well I might ride along the border, with my tweezers gleaming in the moon-lighty night, and then I'd get a cuppa coffee 'N give my foot a push . . . Just me and the pygmy pony  
over by the Dental Floss Bush-"

Eventually the bell rang, and Harry lazily collected his things with his friends, who had started singing along by the first repetition while Lockhart tried, red-faced, weak-chinned, and sweating around his nervously smiling, singing mouth, to undo the jinx that had inexplicably befallen him. A few people stayed behind and threw the Slytherins angry looks as they exited, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care after the complete waste of the last two hours of his life.

He only considered regretting the prank when a wide-eyed, excitable first-year boy interrupted the Slytherins' Charms lesson following lunch. He paused his practice of the scouring charm to glance at the interloper.

"Sorry, Professor Flitwick, Sir," the red and gold-trimmed boy chirped. "It's Professor Flitwick, right?"

The diminutive charms master stood on his omnipresent stack of books to smile in welcome.

"Indeed I am, Mr..?"

"Creevey, Professor," he offered. "Sorry for interrupting, but Professor Lockhart asked that I fetch you up for a little assistance. He said someone's managed to tag him with a babbling jinx on his way back from lunch, but one of the garden gnomes gnawed on his wand before he could take the time to come down between setting up for our lesson, you see."

"Garden gnomes?"

Draco couldn't hold back his guffaw when several of their classmates broke into giggles. Flitwick's wispy grey brows twitched. Harry jabbed his elbow in the boy's ribs.

"Er- So garden gnomes have prevented the professor from ending the enchantment," he summarised. "So he sent you to fetch me. Is that the whole of it, Master Creevey?"

The boy bobbed his head and grinned wider.

"Yes, Sir. Professor Lockhart didn't want to leave the others unattended, and I've already managed to fling five gnomes through the ring he set up, so he thought it best."

"Indeed," Flitwick sighed resignedly. "Very well. I'll be with him after I dismiss my second-years."

The door closed quietly, and the lesson continued beneath the professor's thoughtful gaze, which roved over his students more sharply than Harry felt comfortable with. The hour ended without further comment about Creevey's message; however, and Harry felt he might have gotten away with it. Never one to give away his guilt when he hadn't done anything actually harmful, he took his time gathering his books and was among the last to stroll from the room with his Hufflepuff and Slytherin friends. Just as he cleared the threshold, however, he caught Flitwick grinning out of the corner of his eye. The professor held the door open, winked, and squeakily whispered:

"Five points to Slytherin for an excellent example of advanced spellwork."

Harry swore he heard the professor humming the avant-garde melody later, during dinner.

He definitely noticed several students singing it, and by the accuracy of the lyrics, he realised there must have been more fans than he thought among his peers.

* * *

Rose smiled easily at her students, watching as they hesitantly filed into the room. Their eyes flitted around to evaluate their surroundings, and the newly minted educator thought she saw more approval than worry.

Before her arrival, the space reserved for the course previously known as Muggle Studies had not changed in nearly forty years, according to everyone she asked. Gone were the neat rows of old desks facing and the outdated display of matches, batteries, some plugs, and a rubber duck. In their place, the room's new mistress cultivated an entirely different atmosphere.

The windows, generally shut against the elements, stood open to let in late summer breezes. Long, rich umber curtains fluttered around each casement, and light flooded in to chase away even the persistent shadows that always clung to the vaulted arches overhead. A large, round carpet occupied the centre of the room, around which several bean bags and floor cushions sat in a riot of warm colours and shapes. A large, flat, black panel hovered to the side of the arrangement of seating, and the non-magically savvy recognised it as a screen by the series of little blue lights blinking lazily on its edge. A mechanism with a lot of gears and cogs sat beneath it, and a tangle of multicoloured wires connected them. The slate remained at the head of the room, but Rose had painstakingly lettered its surface with multicoloured paint markers until it resembled an attractively old-fashioned looking ad from the earlier twentieth century.

_Welcome to the Study of Non-Magical Cultures!_

A stylised rendering of a hand pointed to the other side of the board, which read:

_Class Goal: To understand what separates Muggle and Magical Society._

"Come on in," the redhead invited, grinning at the kids' faces and ruefully recalling how she had always felt about school at their age.

Not long ago, even after travelling time and space, she would have laughed if anyone told her she'd end up teaching, nevertheless that she'd have the qualifications to do it.

"Take a seat wherever you like. I imagine this class is going to be very different from how you remember it, those of you who've been here before."

A Ravenclaw boy raised his hand and grinned sheepishly.

"We're all third-years, Professor. So none of us had Muggle Studies. It's just not what we were expecting from what upper-years have told us."

Rose nodded her acknowledgment and took a quick visual survey of their house colours: Ravenclaws represented the majority, and the rest seemed evenly dispersed.

"Well, that's probably going to be the norm for this year," she quipped, beaming around at them all. "I'm Professor Smith, but since there are two of us running around, you can call me Professor Rose, or you can call my husband The Doctor, because that's what he went by in his last position. Anyway-"

No one said anything.

"O.K. Right. This is going to be extremely boring if we don't establish some familiarity, and my husband's going to take the Mickey out of me if he hears that's the case, so let's try this. Let's everyone go around the room, introduce ourselves for my sake and one another's, in case you haven't been introduced."

She smoothed a few flyaway hairs back from her face and shed her outer robe to put her hands on her hips. Her green eyes surveyed glinted a bit in protest against the post-lunch lethargy permeating her students.

"So again, I'm Rose Smith," she repeated. "I enjoy dancing, jazz, and travelling. Before this, I worked at the ministry in Law Enforcement for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Before that, I did consulting work for the non-magical government to help keep the general public unaware of how often odd things happen."

She grinned to herself at the purposeful misdirection and swept her gaze over the uncertain teenagers. When no one volunteered, she raised a brow and glanced to the girl on her left.

"E-Edgecombe, ma'am," the girl stuttered. "Marietta Edgecombe."

"And what's something you wouldn't mind sharing about yourself?"

"Pardon, Professor?" Marietta frowned.

Rose smiled at her expectantly.

"For example, what's your favourite pastime? Mine's travelling."

"Well," she began nervously. "My grandmother taught me to knit, and I've always enjoyed it, but I also like to read."

"I'm glad to have you, Marietta. Who's next?"

One by one, each student introduced him or herself, and by the time they reached the last person, everyone had quite relaxed into their chosen bean bags or floor cushions.

"Excellent," Rose hummed, clapping her hands together. "So, I've been reading through the syllabi and materials of the previous professors, and I'm very sad to say the materials that've been available to you are all really, really out-of-date. By that I mean they're off by almost a hundred years."

Several students groaned.

"But I've got my older brother's text!" a Slytherin complained.

Rose shrugged.

"Sorry, Miss Meads, and anyone else who falls into this category, but you'll have to purchase or borrow a copy of this year's text. I requested it myself both at Flourish and Blotts and at Tomes and Scrolls, but for those of you comfortable with it, I've also got some order forms for a Glasgow shop called Aye-Aye Books. I've set it up so the U.K. Owl Postal Service will make sure you get what you need. They also sell our text for less than ten pounds, or compared to the six galleons for the one on our end. See me if you've got questions."

That put most of the grumbling to rest, especially for the Ravenclaw students. Rose smiled and strode to the floating screen.

"I'm sure you've seen the class goal on the board, and I want you to consider your thoughts on the issue while we go through this first demonstration for the term," she began, calling their attention to the device only a few of them recognised. "What is it, really, that separates non-magical from magical?"

She crouched and twisted off the little cap on the reservoir connected to the device beneath the screen.

"Does anyone know what petrol is?"

A Hufflepuff hesitantly raised her hand.

"Miss MacAvoy?" Rose asked. "Heidi, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. Isn't it sort of like liquid firewood or coal?"

Rose grinned as she poured a beaker of shimmery yellowish fluid into the reservoir.

"Right you are. It's a fuel made from very, very old carbon, like coal. That forms when wood's compressed and aged for millennia, and people mine it with machinery from underground. It's a significant source of fuel for most non-magicals the world over. Petrol is a refined version of oil, which goes under a similar process, but comes from mixed animal and plant matter. Non-magical people drill for it, and they refine it to get this stuff."

"So, you burn it?" Zacharias Smith grunted.

"Kind of. If you just light it on fire, you could actually end up blowing yourself up. It's really volatile, so non-magicals figured out how to make more efficient use of it," Rose explained. "Everyone knows how steam power works, right?"

She saw nods all around.

"While wizards and witches use magic to sustain fires to heat water for steam-powered mechanics, non-magical people use petrol or coal. The same principles used in making gears turn to move pistons eventually led to the invention of the modern combustion engine," she began, gesturing at her device. "This is an electrical generator, and it's going to channel electricity by burning the petrol, which we'll spark by pulling this cord. The reaction created when we burn teeny drops of petrol will turn a mechanism sort of like a turbine inside. Scientists figured out that they could use the manipulation of magnetism this way to channel electricity."

Rose capped the reservoir and pulled hard on a little red handle protruding from the generator. The machine made a grating sound and sputtered. She yanked again, a little faster, and with her second attempt the machine came to life. It began huffing and vibrating subtly, and the students leaned in. Some recoiled a little from the smell the petrol made.

The woman grinned at their reactions and pushed one of the little lights on the far edge of the screen. Soon, no one paid any attention to the generator, too absorbed in the video explaining the intimate workings of its internal parts. Rose sat among her students while the video talked about the inner workings of the generator, and how generators across the world to powered televisions, cars, homes, and more. Thirty minutes later, the students looked more uncertain than before.

"Can I clarify anything?" Rose invited innocently, sitting at the edge of the circle, nearest the buzzing generator.

"How is that at all possible," Zacharias Smith demanded. "I mean, Muggles are clever enough, I suppose, but how can they even figure that out without magic?"

"I was hoping you'd ask," she smiled, cutting through his frustration. "I've been talking to the headmaster and my son over the last year, and I have a proposition for all my classes. I know you've all been told a lot of things about non-magical people, so here's what I was thinking-"

She paused, played with a few buttons on the side of the screen again, and a new image flashed into being. An air ship smoothly took off from a beautiful green lawn to sail gracefully into the sky. The scene cut to a tour of the cabin, where a pretty stewardess led the camera crew further into the airship while pointing out the amenities.

"I'm sure you've seen these in the sky every now and again. It's a favourite in non-magical leisure transportation," she elaborated. "How many of you would like to ride in one?"

An excited murmur swept the third-years, and she saw curiosity if not interest on most of their faces.

"I intend to give you that opportunity. For fall term, we're going to focus on sciences and mechanics, which have allowed non-magical people to achieve not only the control of electricity, but flight and space exploration. If you all perform well enough in discussions and on your quizzes, you'll be invited to join me for an out-of-school excursion in a zeppelin reserved just for our use. You won't be required to attend, and you _will_ need a parent or guardian's permission to leave school grounds, but it would give you an extra edge on your exams just because you'll have practical experience in everything we'll be discussing."

No one protested outright, so she stood and grabbed a box from her desk. She passed a slim, canvas-covered binder to each student. The kids with exposure to non-magical office supplies eagerly opened them up and flipped through the contents.

"Since I knew some of you might not have the text, yet, I've given you all some sections from a non-magical sciences primer. Please read chapter one and complete the exercises inside. I will be quizzing you next class, and your overall performance in class will weigh on your homework averages," she warned lightly. "I also believe in teamwork, so if everyone does especially well, I'll be inclined to give out rewards. Also-"

She paused to pass around a box of biros.

"I'll give a point to every person who can explain how this works after reading the chapter. You can turn that bit in on paper or parchment. I'll collect them at the start of class."

The bell rang, and the kids clamoured to make it to their next hour with mumbled thank-yous and other greetings thrown over their shoulders. The time traveller expelled a long, cleaning breath and grinned at the thought she might be rather good at teaching.

* * *

"History. History."

Thirty-some blank faces stared back at the Doctor as he paced in front of his desk, the tail of his brown robes billowing a bit in his wake. He idly wondered if he could get away with just his duster, but quickly dismissed the idea as a bad job.

"History, history, history, his-stor-ee…"

The professor paused and blinked.

"Why do I always do that? Never mind. Moving on – " he spun on his heel, grinned at his students, and tucked his hands into his pockets in one smooth motion. "Hello everyone. I'm the Doctor, which I think should cause less confusion all around, but you can also call me Professor Smith or Mr Rose Smith if you prefer."

Several students laughed.

"Don't knock it. It may very well happen to you one day, if you're lucky. Well, assuming you like that sort of thing. Well, if you've got a good personality or you're especially good looking. Well, sometimes even without either, hormones being what they are."

The few students who had been doodling or whispering side conversations had all turned their attention to him at that point, so he quickly determined he shouldn't waste the opportunity he'd been given.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he advised seriously. "Anyway, we're here to learn about wizarding history, and I'm told my predecessor, the honourable Mr Binns, liked to discuss the Goblin Wars, is that right?"

He observed a range of reactions sweep his audience, but the most pronounced stemmed from complaints.

"What year is this?"

"Fourth year, sir," a red-headed twin with a multitude of freckles volunteered. "Not that it really matters."

"If you like, Professor," said his brother. "You can just let us have a kip."

"Never!" the Doctor crowed.

With that, the professor turned with an impressively dramatic flourish to catch the edge of the freestanding blackboard. The spinning slate spun and stopped in a position perpendicular to its original orientation to reveal a map of the UK. The rendering shivered until it crisply projected a three-dimensional topographical model rising smoothly from the slate's surface. A great creaking filled the class as everyone leaned forward in their seats.

"My dear friends," the Doctor began, "You've been horribly wronged. You've been led to believe history is this stagnant, dusty old thing! That times past have no relevance to the world around you today, and if you haven't got that message, you've been discouraged from learning more.

"History is fun!" he boomed, eyes manic and hands gesticulating excitedly. "Amazing! And I'm going to show you."

The Doctor grinned widely and prodded the hologram with his sonic wand, what Rose called 'unholy amalgamation of wizardry and technology'. The image obligingly shifted to zoom in on London until the city sparkled impressively before the class in all its glory.

"Everyone stand up!" he commanded, popping the 'p'.

The class hastily scrambled from their seats, and a sweep of his wand had the desks, chairs, and the students' belongings neatly sorted against the walls. Another couple of taps disconnected the swivelling slate from its stand and guided it to the centre of the room, where he proceeded to enlarge it until the students barely managed to stand around its edges.

The projection filled the room with such vibrance and opacity it was hard to believe the street before them was an illusion, at all. The kids goggled, amazed as they watched tiny people, horses, and carts traverse the city's streets.

"It is the twentieth of June, 1215. Not quite a week ago, King John of England was forced to sign the Magna Carta at the Water Meadow at Runnymeade, but what most Barons failed to realize was John had no intention of following through because-"

The Doctor paused to examine their faces expectantly.

"Because?" he prompted.

A Hufflepuff boy blinked and frowned.

"…Because the Goblins had bribed the muggle king in exchange for muggle-owned lands after their rebellion?"

"Who are you?" the Doctor asked.

"Cedric Diggory, Professor," the boy said with a modest sort of smile.

The Doctor immediately approved of his manner and enthusiasm.

"Mr Diggory, you get ten points for volunteering and for remembering anything that idiot said – I mean, who in their right mind keeps a _ghost_ on as staff?"

The twins snickered at that, as did several others.

"-But no, you're completely wrong. Well, _he_ was completely wrong. You're just misled. It's very clear in your text, and in history, what _really_ went on. The thing the Barons didn't realize was that John had a court wizard."

A girl raised her hand in the Doctor's periphery, but he waggled his brows at her and grinned.

"Yeah, I know – _What was a wizard doing working for a non-magical king?_ But remember the date: The Statute of Secrecy wasn't signed until 1689. The Wizengamot, however, has existed in some form since the early ten hundreds," he rattled off. "After William the Conquer skipped out on Normandy and earned his epithet in 1066, he officially gathered the wisest scholars and nobles he could muster and created a council. This included the body that would later become the Wizengamot in addition to the non-magical house of lords, later turned into the Royal Congress, and more recently, the elected Congress for the United Democratic Kingdom of Greater Britain. William's court wizard was a Sir Armond Malfoy, who very helpfully formed the first council of wizards.

"And who wouldn't want a court wizard?" he suggested. "The tradition carried on, as you see-"

The scene changed to show a richly clothed king clasping arms with a man draped in deep burgundy robes.

"Until Lord Heston Godelot won the appointment," the Doctor continued, gesturing to the latter. "Godelot adored power. He enjoyed the power he had over the wizard council, and under the Magna Carta, the council members' influence would go up while his would fade to something much more reasonable for the average, well-adjusted man. The way he saw it, the Magna Carta undermined his leadership of the council, because the vows he'd have to take would force him only to advise the king based on the council's consensus. You see Godelot's problem?"

"But there was definitely a Goblin rebellion that year," protested one of the Ravenclaws, flipping through his textbook. "It says so right here."

"Yes. But if you go to page 129," the Doctor quickly retorted. "You'll see it was _Godelot_ who betrayed the Council of Wizards and the Great Council, which would become the modern Congress, when he promised the Goblins – falsely, of course – that King John would grant them their own sovereign soil if they agreed to go to war for him."

"But…" a girl said slowly, frowning as Godelot met with goblin warriors in the projection.

"Yes, miss-"

"Stimpton, Sir. Sally Stimpton. The Magna Carta was a basis of just treatment under the law. Why would the goblins-"

"The language only included any free_man_," the Doctor reminded her drily. "And that's what Godelot used to persuade the Goblins to fight for John. Thus, the first Goblin Rebellion began."

The scene shifted again, exchanged for one of absolute horror. The Doctor grimly looked around at his students who gasped and shied from the violence so poorly represented in their previous decades-old text. Wizards, soldiers, and goblins fought bitterly across a gore-strewn landscape. For the first time since he started the lecture, sound accompanied the action in a sustained roar of fear and anger not quite drowned beneath the cacophony of sizzling spells clashing steel. With a delicate touch, he carefully blurred the worst of war's visceral truths from their view. The bodies fell, and blood flew everywhere, but he spared them the disembowelments, compound breaks, and severed limbs. Even so, the effect was enough. With a pang, he noted tears in some of their wide eyes.

"This was the result," he said more gently. "Wizards, non-wizards, kids, and goblins fighting because petty little men wanted power, the goblins – poor fools – caught up in it because of a lie."

He allowed the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws to watch in utterly silent awe and horror for several minutes while the scene played out until, gratefully, it faded and two figures stood at the centre of the blurred carnage carpeting the now quiet field.

"Enter Robin of Shrewsbury, better known as Robin, son of Baron Robert Locksly of Sherwood, or also as 'Robin Hood.' He was a young man who had been born to a talented witch and his non-magical but ennobled father. Both died, that day, defending their village from King John's might. He'd just had their bodies removed from the battlefield and was looking for other faces he recognised when he came upon a lone goblin wandering the muck."

Robin raised his sword, grief and fury etched into his face. The smaller figure turned, Robin's swing halted before it could strike, and the class gasped.

"That's a-"

"Girl!" George finished for his twin.

"No," the Doctor reprimanded. "She's a goblin _warrioress_. Hedwig Curved-Claw. She was a future matriarch, a princess, if you will. It was her brothers that'd been wrongfully tricked into this war with the hope of freedom from the humans' harassment and persecution."

He paused while Robin of Shrewsberry steadied his weapon and approached the goblin. She glared fiercely at the young man who held a blade to her throat. Her own hand curved around the handle of a wicket axe strapped across her back.

"Now imagine," the professor urged. "You've just lost your family. You probably saw it happen, or saw the aftermath. You're furious! Horribly sad! But more than that, you want it to _stop_."

Robin withdrew his blade and slumped heavily onto his knees in the muck. The goblin's snarl relaxed as she eyed the human's behaviour with unveiled interest.

"But these two were special! They recognized killing each other wouldn't solve anything. And they were smart enough to see why it was happening. So, they made a revolutionary decision that would change our world forever."

The image winked out, the curtains shading the windows slid back, and the students blinked about in confusion at the sudden luminescence and abrupt end to the intense lecture.

"For homework," the Doctor instructed, "You will read pages 900 and 901, the Magna Carta, in its entirety. Make notes. If you're interested, there's a biography for Robin Hood and his friend, Hedwig, on 143, where you can read what happened in brief. We'll pick up there for our next lesson."

The bell rang. School bags, books, and belongings found their owners, and a slightly shell-shocked group of students retreated from their first experience with the Doctor for other, duller, lessons.

"Well," he said to himself as he re-shrunk the board and returned it to its stand. "Not too bad for a first day's lesson."


	7. The Illustrious Professor

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Here's some Q &amp; A that's popped up since the start of this story.

Q: Malfoy, court wizard?

A: This is likely canon. Although JK never mentions it explicitly, the details she provides makes it likely Malfoy's family came over with William the Conqueror, and the name is French. The part about the Wizengamot is entirely my imagining, but not improbable. It has to start somewhere, and probably the population wasn't great enough or organised enough to start or maintain its own between when Rome fell and William took over.

Q: Robin Hood and Hedwig?

A: If you've kept up with the Doctor on BBC, now on his twelfth version, 13th or 14th regen – I can never keep up with that – he just visited Robin Hood in our reality. In 10.2's parallel reality, King John's war went a lot differently. It was as the Doctor describes minus the goblins and magic. In HP and the Sorcerer's Stone, JK says Harry names his owl after a 'Hedwig' he found in his history text, likely after one of the saint Hedwigs canonised by the Roman Catholic Church. But again, we're in a parallel reality, so for us, Hedwig was a goblin warrioress, a matriarch, and she assisted Robin Hood in restoring order to Britain.

Q: Did you know Dudley is Doctor 2's grandkid?

A: I didn't! That's a lovely bit of trivia. I always kind of wondered whether JK was a Whovian growing up, though, because a lot of the magical things in her universe resonate with the Doctor's universe. Bigger-on-the-inside tents and all that. I'm sure if she was, she giggled to herself when she saw the casting decision for Dudley.

* * *

Chapter Seven – The Illustrious Professor

* * *

**Saturday, 7 September 2013**

"Poor dear. I saw Lockhart managed to mangle half your mandrakes."

The witch hummed a soothing, deep sound of understanding at Professor Sprout's answering sniffle and shot her a sympathetic smile across the table. She tucked one of her long, slim, dark braids back behind her ear, added another cube of sugar to her tea, and shot a mild warming charm at it so steam rose again from its wonderfully dark, fragrant depths.

"That's not the whole of it either, Aurora" the normally jolly professor harrumphed. "The rest were so upset, their squalling put down three of my students. I've never seen Poppy so furious, well, saving after that business last year. I thought Albus wouldn't ever recover from _that_ tongue-lashing."

"Don't remind me," the Jamaican intonation in her voice slightly more pronounced with her momentary ire. "But how did they manage that through the mufflers?"

"They broke their pots!" Professor Sprout exclaimed. "Never in all my time here as a teacher or a student have I seen such an upset. I had nine roots go off one after the other, throwing clay everywhere, scaring my kids half to death."

She rubbed her hands over her temples and sighed again.

"Poor Miss Bones, Mr Rivers and Miss Bulstrode lost their ear protection in the panic. Thank the powers that be for Mr Potter's quick thinking and Miss Granger's wand, or I would have had more in the hospital wing, too," she elaborated. "Lockhart wanted to 'help' me clean up the aftermath, said he could treat the injured or re-condition the bruised roots for me. Potter must have been worried about what might have befallen Miss Bones, because I've never seen him move that fast to intercept someone off the pitch. No doubt the poor boy had to endure a lecture on 'fame management' or some such nonsense. You know, that idiot thinks the child _wants_ the attention? To think-!"

"That again?" Professor Vector grumbled, strolling into the staffroom with a _Prophet_ folded under her arm. "We deal with him enough at meals and during this useless exercise. Why give him more of your attention?"

Sprout grimaced, but the Astronomy Professor shrugged.

"Perhaps it is because the other inclinations he inspires are less admirable than venting," she suggested. "A person can only hold onto hate so long afore she turns to other relief methods."

"Less admirable than gossiping about how much we dislike the ponce?" Septima laughed, sliding into a seat across from the other two women. "Isn't there anything else you might want to talk about?"

"I'm sure you can guess," Pomona giggled with a vague gesture. "They're certainly causing a stir."

"You mean the professors Smith?"

Aurora nodded, taking a sip of her tea.

"Who else?" she laughed. "They're clever, brilliant with the children, handsome-"

"_Very_ handsome, you mean," Pomona added conspiratorially. "The both of them."

"Oh, you!"

"You've thought it, too, Septima," the astronomy professor said innocently. "Anyhow, I'm glad they're here, however unorthodox they may be. I've never seen the students eager for either subject, before, and with how well it's gone so far, we may even get N.E.W.T. certifications back for both."

"Did you hear about Rose's proposal, though?" Sprout wondered with no small amount of admiration. "An outing for all her classes! How does she propose to fund such a thing?"

Professor Vector tossed her chestnut hair over her shoulder.

"I imagine she'll put in a request for part of the discretionary fund," she mused.

Pomona looked at her doubtfully.

"Lucius Malfoy won't like that," she said regretfully.

The women shared a long look at the thought of the most active school regent.

"Well," Septima quipped. "Perhaps it's time his little Christmas bonus was put to its originally intended use. Otherwise, she's resourceful. I'm sure she'll find a way."

The door at the end of the long, oval-shaped room opened again to admit Flitwick, who smiled jovially at the ladies before climbing atop the stack of books helpfully balanced in one of the seats near their end of the table.

"Good morning!" he chirruped. "Did I miss anything, fair ladies?"

"No, dear man," Vector sighed. "We were just remarking on changes certain members of our staff have wrought on the school."

"Oh!" Flitwick gasped, so enthused he nearly toppled off his books. "Speaking of which, have you heard about Potter and Granger's zeppelin?"

"What in the world is that?" Sprout frowned.

Vector drew her wand over the surface of the table, outlining the shape in scorch marks.

"It's a flying ship muggles use to travel long distances," she explained to her older friend. "It's not as fast as the top racing brooms, but quite a lot more comfortable, from what I hear."

"And two young children are building such a thing?" the herbologist protested.

"Not a full-sized one, but a model, surely," Septima suggested.

Filius fairly trembled in his excitement as he leaned forward on his stack.

"Not quite a model," he disagreed. "And they're not building it on their own. They've got the Doctor overseeing the project, and darling Rose has invited her students to work on it with them for addition course credit. Not only that, but the project stemmed from a minor disagreement on muggle ingenuity, so half the class is building one without a blueprint to some basic guidelines. They'll be judged at Christmas, and it seems they intend to let young Miss Renette pilot them assuming both are deemed safe by the esteemed couple."

"She's yet a babe," Sinistra frowned.

"She'll be fine," the Doctor interjected, loping through the open door. "Filius has already volunteered his assistance to keep everything safe and fair, and Renette's more than eager to try. She's already got a broom, after all."

"If you say so, Doctor," Aurora said a little cheekily.

The Doctor smiled rakishly and spun a chair to straddle it with his arms folded over its back. Sinistra frowned at the briefcase he nudged across the table toward her.

"I finally figured out how to forward my post to my quarters, and I've finally got the latest issue of that Astronomy journal I was telling you about," he explained. "I've already copied it, so it's yours. There's a fantastic article about the galaxy filament they discovered – Beautiful photographs, too. Also dug the back-issues out of storage"

"Thank you!" the woman breathed, eagerly rifling through the case.

The Doctor shrugged off her appreciation.

"I still can't believe they're making you teach such basic astronomical calculations," he lamented. "I mean, really, your talents are completely wasted on the 'Ministry Accredited' curriculum."

"Well," she sighed. "You flatter me, but what can I do? The idea of wizarding primary school hasn't caught on, yet, because the people who could fund it prefer private tutilege, and the board refuses to compare our certifications with the international standard. In the meantime, I have to do my best with my independent study students."

"Oh, what I could have showed you if I had the Tardis, still."

"What's a-" Pomona began.

"Don't ask," Septima interrupted. "His explanation leaves much to be desired and induces headaches after a few seconds."

"Aw," the Doctor pouted. "I'm wounded."

Whatever Professor Vector wanted say was lost beneath a wild, carefree laugh, followed by a very familiar, sour grumble.

"…Really, Sev?" Rose's voice carried through the door. "You've never, not even once-?"

Those seated in the staffroom exchanged interested and slightly bemused glances, save for the Doctor, who looked unflappable as ever.

"I've had more important pursuits these past seventeen years," Severus drawled. "One doesn't earn my level of mastery by wasting time chasing pointless diversion."

"There _has_ to be someone," Rose insisted. "I mean, you're not a stone."

The potions master's face flushed when the man registered the audience waiting for them. He quickly arranged his features into their usual dour expression and nodded absently before taking a seat. Rose rolled her eyes but followed him in with a smile to sit beside the Doctor and peck him on the cheek.

"Hello, gorgeous. Did you already drop Jen with Harry and the others?"

"Yup," the Doctor affirmed. "They're probably circulating the astronomy tower, by now."

"I'm still not so sure about letting her fly all over," she worried, pulling some notes from the folio she carried.

The other professors had started to find their own weekly updates as the clock wound its way toward eleven, but some gave her odd looks at her comment.

"Not to worry, my dear," Flitwick kindly squeaked. "Hagrid takes it upon himself to keep an eye out when classes aren't in session, and the castle's quite adept at finding ways to keep her children safe."

The mother pursed her lips.

"You know, I lived for _years_ in a mad box that was bigger on the inside and could make decisions for itself –"

"_Her_self," the Doctor corrected.

"Fine," Rose rolled her eyes. "_Herself_, and I'm still not used to the idea that buildings and whatnot can even have room for those sorts of feelings. I mean, where do they keep their brains?"

Vector blinked and looked between the two in confusion.

"I'm sorry, but what are you two talking about?" she asked incredulously. "I've never heard of any place with quite the magical consciousness as Hogwarts."

"That would fall under the headache-inducing topics I still urge you not to broach," Aurora sing-songed.

"We'll hear if anything happens," the Doctor assured her

"How's that?" Rose laughed. "Unless…"

Her carefully sculpted brows drew together.

"You didn't," she accused, glaring at him. "Did you?"

The Doctor affected an innocent expression.

"I've not the slightest idea what you're talking about," he said.

His wife sighed.

"I'm just going to let you deal with whatever you did on your own, all right? I'm not digging you out of it when Jenny goes on the warpath because you broke broomstick."

The others grinned at their spousal antics, but quickly lost their good cheer as the remaining staff joined them. Minerva, always compassionate behind her stern façade, gave them all a warning grimace upon her entry. Moments later, they heard Professor Lockhart's voice approaching down the hall, answered every so often by the headmaster's patient, if weary, rumble.

The Doctor plopped his chin into his hand and rolled his eyes.

"I don't know if he's got actual treacle for brains, or if it's just a complex," he stage whispered to Rose. "But if I have to put up with another account of how he did whatever the same month he did six other things half the world over, I think I might let Torchwood have him for experimentation purposes."

* * *

Jenny had waited for this moment all day. First, her parents had been _dreadfully_ slow waking up, and then they took forever getting dressed. She had stepped into a long-sleeved shirt and the least frilly romper she owned of her witch's wardrobe immediately after brushing her teeth promptly at six-thirty that morning. After that, she waited nearly until seven, when her mum and dad _finally_ finished putting their clothes on.

"Now, Jen," her dad had said, crouching to grip her shoulders in the entryway to their modest apartments. "You've got to promise me you'll not wander off. Not like my companions promised in all my stories. A real promise. It's really dangerous for you to go off on your own. If your mum or I aren't with you, you've got to stick to Harry, and if something happens to him, you need to fly to Hagrid, Severus or Filius. Do you understand?"

Jenny nearly whined, but she could tell how serious her dad was, so she nodded and very maturely constructed her answer.

"I promise, Dad. I understand."

He smiled at her and stood up.

"Now _please_ can we go explore the castle?" she begged, nearly trembling with excitement.

Rose laughed, tickling her from behind. She plopped a kiss on Jenny's cheek, and her daughter wiped the moist spot aggressively.

"_Mu-um_," she complained.

"Yes, we can. Betcha can't catch me!"

Rose raced from through the portrait, her daughter and husband hot on her heels. Jenny and her parents laughed uproariously as they explored Hogwarts, drawing odd looks from the few people awake to see them. Jenny couldn't believe it! She'd gotten to see Hogwarts over the summer, but it was a completely different place with students casting real, actual magic around every corner. Everywhere she turned, something amazing caught her eye. The portraits complained at her, just as cranky at being woken as her mum could be. The suits of armour squeaked, and the staircases moved unexpectedly underfoot. Her dad took her hand, and though Rose had gotten a head start from their apartment, they somehow beat her to the great hall.

Jenny stared appreciatively at the ceiling, where little wisps of condensed water vapour floated lazily high above their heads, creating swirls in the beautiful, clear blue sky. Someone cleared her throat and Jenny looked down to find a very stern, very tall, thin woman looking down at her.

"Good morning, Miss Smith," she said, her lips somewhat pursed beneath very sharp eyes.

"Good morning, ma'am," Jenny said, trying to smile.

"Have you come to join us for breakfast?"

Jenny nodded and stood on tiptoe to peek at the elaborate spread weighing down the head table.

"Are there blueberry preserves? Daddy makes toast and eggs every morning," she explained. "But he always forgets to put out jam."

McGonagall put on an exaggerated look of disappointment.

"No jam? What a travesty," she gave the Doctor a playfully stern look. "What sort of person forgets the jam?"

With that, she took Jenny's hand and led her to the empty space beside her seat, where she conjured a taller-than-normal chair and poured her young friend a large glass of pumpkin juice. The Doctor and Rose sat on their daughter's other side, both smiling at their daughter's overwhelmingly warm reception since she set foot in the castle.

Jenny adored breakfasts in the Great Hall and hadn't joined the staff for one since term started. Though her dad made tasty bacon and omelettes, she missed fluffy scones with sweet honey-butter and sticky, elf-made jam. She also enjoyed the attention. It was a bit like having extra aunts and uncles, and she missed that feeling since moving away from Sutton. Jack, Mickey, Tony or Gwen had made a habit of dropping by unannounced with presents, sweets, and tales of their latest adventures.

Students began coming down for breakfast not long after she took her seat, and though not everyone noticed the addition to the head table at the start, soon everyone was looking up at her and whispering excitedly. She sat straight and tried not to drop anything on herself while she watched the Slytherins come in. It took him _forever_ to come down for breakfast with Daphne and Draco. He gave her a huge grin and a wave almost as soon as he passed the threshold. She waved back and finally focused on finishing her jam-and-crispy-bacon-stuffed scones, which she thought were much better than toast.

Professor Snape followed his students a little later to take the seat next to Rose, which the Doctor had abandoned after scarfing down some tomatoes and eggs in his haste to talk to Professor Sinistra.

"So, is the inquisition over yet?" her mum asked once the Slytherin head-of-house had drawn a serviette over his lap.

The dour, sallow-faced potions master took a long draught of tea and took his time cutting up his bangers.

"For the most part," he answered in a deep drawl. "My prefects managed to hold it off until the second morning, and Mr Tyler answered their questions with reasonable politesse."

Rose refilled Jenny's milk glass and speared a fried tomato.

"I hear a 'but' somewhere in there."

"I was trying to be polite, but since you insist," the potions master smirked. "He lies poorly. He is fortunate, indeed, to have such gifts in masking his mind. He's also lucky his housemates are so reduced from what Slytherins used to be."

Jenny perked up at this, not only because she was taught she should_ not_ lie, but also because she knew her brother to be one of the most honest people she'd ever met. Which said quite a lot, because other kids' older brothers and sisters were habitual liars and mean ones, at that.

" – A gift Mr Tyler would do well to cultivate in your daughter, too, it would seem," Snape added, pinning Jenny with a bland stare. "Especially when she seems so eager to listen to others' conversations."

Jenny shrank in her seat, her cheeks flushing, and Rose smacked Snape's arm lightly.

"Oi, no scaring my kid," she admonished. "And don't worry so much. The Doctor has already taken care of that."

"Why is it you insist on calling him that?" he griped. "You say it as a singularity – _The_ Doctor. Why not use his name?"

Rose sighed and smiled wryly.

"Something about endangering parallel realities. Ask him about it. Or don't. It seems our colleagues think it leads to migraines."

Jenny couldn't worry too much about the adults' odd conversation, though, because her father returned from his visit to the other end of the table.

"Done with your breakfast?" he asked, bending to kiss the top of her head.

Snape made a sound of complaint in the back of his throat.

"Yes!" Jenny crowed, hopping down from her taller-than-normal chair.

McGonagall chuckled as Jenny half-dragged her dad from the great hall, and the little girl barely heard the older woman heckle Snape.

"What is it? Can't handle a little sweetness in the morning?" she teased.

"…I simply think more decorum would be appropriate. It's slightly sickening."

"Shut up, Sev," Rose laughed. "Suck it up and enjoy life, for once."

Outside, the stubbornly bright sun had burned away the dew and chill, leaving a wide, blue sky in their wake. Fluffy white clouds dotted the skyline above the forest and reflected on the calm surface of the lake. The Doctor led her from the entryway to the path around the castle's other side, which opened up into a courtyard that looked over a sweeping hill. Below, the massive Quidditch pitch's towers rose like points from a crown around the tall spectators' stands. Specks zoomed overhead between the shining gold goalposts, but none could fly faster than Jenny's brother.

Suddenly, the boy somersaulted midair and dove for the ground. The Doctor whooped, and the few kids in the stands echoed his cheer. Jenny tensed. Harry hadn't slowed, and any second he would collide with the lawn. At the last second, he dug in his heels and pulled up to rocket not quite a foot above the ground. Her dad dropped her hand, and she looked up in confusion until she felt an arm grab her tight. She squealed in delight as Harry slowed enough for her to straddle the broom behind him, and she grinned as the familiar feeling of a sticking charm glued her arms around his waist and her bum to the broom.

The kids' father grinned after them as they shot back into the sky. Peals of faint laughter reached him from six hundred feet in the air. Just to be safe, he toggled a switch on his sonic-enhanced wand and spelled an amplified wide-area cushioning charm across the entire field.

* * *

Despite the Doctor, Rose and Harry's combined worries, the castle's thousand-some denizens seemed to shrug at their presence and combined madness as something one might expect from Harry Potter's family. They experienced easy acceptance, and as it turned out, everyone seemed even more impressed with Jenny than they had with the Doctor and Rose together. It seemed Jenny's age, her nonchalance in the face of her brother's fame and her parents' self-admitted strangeness, her gender (though Harry and Jenny both asserted it wouldn't have mattered), and her own vivacious personality led everyone to believe she was destined to be an even greater force than anyone else in her family, simply by virtue of her apparent normalness. In their mind, only a true mistress of subversion possessing the greatest intellect and greater madness could act normal amidst her family's nonsense. At least, that was how Hermione and Daphne explained it to Harry one afternoon.

Her skills on a broom only enhanced her reputation among the students, which only grew when Harry thought to invite her to help Draco and him in agility training. She often out-flew them by virtue of the safety features installed on her nimbus, which let her accomplish stunts her musculature might not have allowed and the boys had no chance of doing without intensive strength training.

Some thought Harry might even feel frustrated with all the attention heaped on his sister, but they needn't have worried. Harry nearly strutted with pride for his sibling and thoroughly enjoyed everyone's easy acceptance of her presence in the castle.

Meanwhile, classes progressed as everyone expected they would. With actual lessons in History featuring engaging content and an infinitely entertaining professor, History quickly became a favourite among the students of Hogwarts to rival Charms. As the most casting-intensive course, it had long stood as high point in most everyone's mind, but Flitwick seemed not to mind having equally popular colleagues. For the second-years, the material had advanced in difficulty, too, and lessons relied less on revision and more on putting to use the theory studied for homework.

In Transfiguration, Harry and his friends started working with larger animals like rats and birds. He felt badly about it, at first, until McGonagall explained the creatures experienced no harm by it under the temporary version of transfiguration practiced at their level.

"The magic sustains them and, as far as any trials have shown, they feel no pain and have little memory of it at all," she explained to the class at large to allay the others' fears. "We do this because it is the most efficient way to get you all accustomed to gauging volume, mass and energy required to successfully transfigure a living thing, which is supremely important for our studies next year."

The Doctor, who had avoided animal experimentation in his own studies and during his many mastery completions over the previous year, felt infinitely intrigued by the explanation when Harry later brought it up. Ever the scientist, he launched into a new set of trials during the weekends, and Harry and Hermione eagerly assisted him whenever their schedules allowed.

Charms progressed as interestingly as ever and focused on spells geared toward everyday use or possible self-defence: flash-bangs, enlarging, shrinking, cleaning, fixing, freezing, unfreezing, drying, and generally improving the fine motor skills necessary to conduct spellwork with any accuracy.

Unfortunately, defence only worsened by the day.

Harry had hoped his harmless prank would deter Lockhart from singling him out, but he thought perhaps the man's megalomania and habit of self-promotion outweighed his common sense. Within two weeks of the 'Zappa incident' (as those familiar with the American guitarist termed it) the foppish professor turned his sites again on Harry in what the Slytherin recognised as a bid to boost his own name recognition.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," he sung as the bells tolled the hour and called the class to session.

The Slytherin felt his classmates pause their side conversations to look strangely at him for the Professor's familiarity. Lockhart grinned as he strolled down the aisle toward Harry's desk.

"I wanted to let you know I forgive you completely for your little earlier this month. I realised I haven't spoken with you about it. I wanted to let you know how terribly funny I thought it, but you really ought to have been more direct. Of course, I'm entirely at fault after our meet in Diagon Alley."

Draco shook with silent amusement at his side, while Harry felt his face slacken in utter confusion. The professor leaned forward to clasp his student's shoulder and proceed in a stage whisper.

"I know a call for attention when I see one," he continued with a patronising wink. "I understand, after having a taste of the spotlight, how you might want to achieve it again. I could have kicked myself when I realised – Anyhow, never you worry. I already knew you might want some mentorship during my tenure here, and I intend to give you the best of the wisdom I've amassed over the years."

By the whispers and giggles sweeping the room, Harry had no doubt his classmates heard every word. He felt his face burning hotly in shades of red left previously unexplored.

"But you can't just jinx your teachers, you know. Sends the wrong message. Yes, I know, I know – 'It's fine for a man known and loved the world over to say something like that!' But it's not so bad. At your age, I was your average nobody, as well. Maybe more so, what with all that business with You-Know-Who."

His blue eyes automatically sought the lightning scar, and Harry felt his embarrassment melt behind incredulity and building anger as understanding of the man's insinuation clicked into place.

"-But don't worry, dear boy. It may not be quite the same as becoming _Witch Weekly_'s five-time Best-Smile and Most-Charming-Bachelor five years running, as I am, but it's an admirable start – A _most_ admirable start to a promising career if you stick with me."

The laughter died away as a beatific smile stretched across Harry's face. Kilat writhed in her secret pouch, hissing violent promises in response to her human's elevated heart rate, temperature, and tension. He clenched his fists under his desk, and while he could feel a shift in Draco's posture beside him and the tang of anxiety colouring his classmates' magic, the professor seemed mollified by the boy's suddenly angelic expression.

"Thank you professor," he said too cheerily. "I will most certainly take what you've said to heart."

Apparently satisfied in having fulfilled his duty as a role model, Lockhart gave him another exaggerated wink and gambolled back to the front of the classroom. The professor finally started his lecture, and though he felt the Ravenclaws relax by degrees, he knew Draco, Blaise, Daphne and Tracy tensely awaited the retribution they read on Harry's face. He was one to let things go, but they had learned over the previous year that he happily shelved his good-natured comportment and live-and-let-live attitude when the occasion called for it. He didn't let people walk on him for their pleasure. Draco had gotten a small taste of the boy's backbone early on, and while Harry hadn't felt a cause to do more than trade a few witty barbs with anyone else _yet_, his friends knew he had the power, the smarts, and the control to do quite a lot more.

The others felt his change in mindset with that uncharacteristic grin.

"Now of course," the professor said at the front of the room, apparently done with his self-aggrandising re-enactment of wrestling werewolves at Terry Boot's expense. "We won't be practicing the immobilising charm on anything as dangerous as a werewolf. However, there'd be little point in preparing for our self defence if our foes weren't at least a little challenging."

He leaned forward on his podium and dropped his voice into a lower, almost forbidding murmur.

"Indeed, you will face all manner of creatures in this class. Some, I'm sure, may be too much for you to handle. But do not fear. No harm shall come to you in my charge."

And with that, Lockhart pulled a large, square cage from the compartment in the wide, deep podium and set it on the table nearby. The cloth covering it fluttered, and the metal rattled. Something that sounded like a lot of small birds – Harry could have sworn he'd heard that sound before – emanated from behind the cloth.

"I ask you not to scream," Lockhart added. "It could provoke them!"

With that, he whipped the cloth away, revealing fifty very angry, electric-blue pixies. They had large, shining black eyes, black mouths filled with sharp teeth, and dragonfly-like wings jutting from their bony backs. Each stood no taller than a man's hand-span, all beating and rattling the cage's bars.

"Pixies?" Theodore Nott scoffed. "We're going to be fighting pixies?"

The professor wagged a finger.

"Only if you let them put up a fight. Remember, the immobilising charm. Of course, they can be extremely tricky little devils if you let them."

Padma Patil raised her hand, her face halfway between admiration and confusion.

"Professor? Do you mean we're to…"

Lockhart granted her a crooked smile.

"Get them back in the cage, yes. I'm sure you'll have no problem, Miss Patil," he reassured her.

The girl blushed prettily, and several other girls giggled.

"Let's see how well you've been paying attention!"

As soon as the professor raised the catch on the cage, the pixies shot out like so many rockets to zip across the room at impressive and destructive speed. Books, inkpots, chairs, wands – anything small enough for their evil little hands to grab sailed through the air. The children shrieked, ducking under desks to avoid the chaos raining down on them. Crabbe screamed as four especially industrious pixies lifted him by the ears in an attempt to hang him from the chandelier. Fortunately, Henry caught him as the pixies went by so the boy hung from the dragon skeleton's lower teeth.

"Come on now! Like I taught you. These are pixies not werewolves," Lockhart admonished, brandishing his wand like a sword.

"_Peskipiksi Pesternomi!_"

But he was overzealous, and his wand flew across the room at the end of his exaggerated flourish. The pixies laughed in their shrill way, and one helpfully fetched it up and dropped it into an empty torch sconce twelve feet up the wall.

"_He's afraid,"_ Kilat hissed, her tiny head poking out of the collar of Harry's shirt.

The boy tried not to laugh. He couldn't have asked for a better turnaround for that day's class.

"Don't worry professor!" he shouted over the screaming. "I'll handle it."

And he did.

He breathed deeply in, feeling the magic tingling across his skin as he raised his wand. The pixies seemed to sense his intention and began circling overhead, swarming just as he shouted –

"_Immobilous!_"

They dropped from the air, their eyes comically wide with rage and their bodies temporarily rigid. A few more industrious Ravenclaws who had yet to flee ducked out from under their desks and quickly scooped up an armful of the stiff little bodies to stuff them unceremoniously back in their cage. The others caught on quickly, and the last few remaining pixies quickly found themselves cornered and immobilised by the other students. When they finally finished rounding them up, the room lay in shambles. Crabbe still shouted down at them from his place, hanging from the jaws of the dragon remains. Anything made of glass lay shattered and sprinkled the floor like sharp bits of glitter, and most of the paper goods had undergone a quick and violent transformation to confetti. Ink splattered skin, clothes, and shoes. Harry even spotted a small fire burning in a wastepaper basket.

"Good one, chap," Draco commented, slapping him on the shoulder. "Quick thinking."

"Glad someone was thinking, at all," Daphne added, smirking a little.

Harry tried not to grin. She saw through him, of course.

"Very good, Harry, my boy!" Lockhart finally crowed. "Exactly as I showed you! Ten points for Slytherin."

The Slytherins gamefully broke into light applause at their professor's lead. The rest of the class stared at him incredulously, save for his admirers, who had already gotten over the ruined state of their things.

"And let this be a lesson to you all," Lockhart finally said, once the room had been put to rights. "Never underestimate your enemies, and always be quick on your feet."

The bell finally rang, and Harry finished scouring ink from his face and hands before following his friends to the door. They waited outside for him with expectant expressions.

"What are you going to do?" Daphne whispered as she looped an arm through his.

Tracy mirrored him on his other side with a shark-like glint to her smile, but Draco glared at her until she huffed and let him resume his usual spot on Harry's right.

"I'm going to talk to Mum and Dad," he said nonchalantly. "I don't mind getting detention as long as I don't lose us too many points, but I really would rather not be grounded."


	8. This Means War

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A/N: Thanks for your comments, faves, and follows thus far. I love you all.

* * *

Chapter Eight – This Means War

* * *

With his parents' and Professor Snape's tacit approval and promise they would not intervene either way, Harry began a campaign specifically designed to showcase what anyone with sense knew to be true: Gilderoy Lockhart's only achievements stemmed from self absorption, a mildly handsome face, and a willingly duped fan club. Harry never aimed for cruelty, no matter how much the temptation struck him whenever he remembered the accusation that he used the Potters' murder as a stepping stool into the spotlight.

He simply provided the professor with opportunities to prove his abilities as a capable wizard. The twelve-year-old certainly could not be blamed for the man's ineptitude or his colleague's apparent reluctance to help him.

On Tuesday, Harry convinced Hermione to help him design a runic array to act similarly to a tripwire. He further altered it by breaking it down with his sonic scanner and tying it to Lockhart's magical signature, which the device had stored long ago just from ambient scanning. That night, he and Draco (who derived endless entertainment both from Lockhart's presumptuousness and Harry's plans to ruin him) flew to the Great Hall. Cuddie waited for them in the threshold with a wicked little smile on her face and a barrel of eggs. Working very carefully, Harry implemented what he and the Doctor had termed a self-reversing transfiguration to weave several dozen yards of brightly coloured ribbon into a net. A snap of the giggling elf's fingers gently transferred the eggs to the net, which helpfully floated into the air as if hoisted at by rope. Harry returned to his broom, and once the booby-trap had risen to the correct height, used scanner and wand to stick the netting's four corners to either side of the hall's arched entry. He then dropped gently back to the ground, cast an over-powered notice-me-not and disillusionment at both eggs and net, and carefully penned small rune circles into the masonry at either side of the doorway in colour-fade ink. Draco helpfully tweaked the arrangement under Harry's direction during one last sonicking, and soon after both returned to bed with no one the wiser.

Wednesday morning dawned cool and misty outside, but neither Slytherin felt worse for it after a few cups of strong tea. Students made their way to breakfast alone and in groups until the hall hummed with conversation and the clatter of cutlery on fine china. At 8:43, Harry finished his food and deliberately engaged Prefect Higgs, who he generally avoided, in a conversation about the electives available to third-years. At 8:45 on the dot, lit by what some guessed as a spotlighting cantrip, the _click-clack _of Lockhart's immaculately shined shoes announced his arrival. Satin ribbons and hundreds of eggs fell suddenly from the ceiling and exploded in splashes of multicoloured paint, gold glitter, and sparkling silver eggshells. A disembodied, squeaky, unidentifiable voice yelled,

"SURPRISE!"

Higgs stopped mid-sentence and snorted.

Lockhart stood with his arms stretched out like a scarecrow. His mouth gaped around spluttering attempts to clear it of the foul-tasting but nontoxic paint. No portion of the professor's extravagant robes had escaped the missiles, and not a drop had fallen on anyone nearby.

It took a moment for the witnesses to process, but the sheer ridiculousness and randomness of the attack broke everyone of their surprise, spreading mirth across the hall. Harry turned and joined his friends' in belly-hugging laughter that only grew with the professor's inarticulate sounds of indignation. As he had hoped, the professors made no move in their entertainment to assist the flailing wizard who tried with no success to cast the scouring charm on himself. Across the hall, Hermione caught his eye from the Hufflepuff table, where Susan seemed to be fighting with herself to stop her laughter, and Hannah unapologetically guffawed into her Earl Grey. She twitched her head to the side, her mass of kinky curls bouncing, and raised an eyebrow.

Harry affected an innocent look, and she rolled her eyes. A moment later, she leaned over to the Gryffindor table to whisper in Neville's ear. His face portrayed surprise, but he shrugged and gamely rose to Hermione's suggestion. He crossed to the entrance and cleared his throat to announce his presence to the half-blinded professor.

"May I help, Professor?" he offered a little meekly. "Looks like you're having some trouble."

"I would appreciate some assistance," Lockhart said with a purple-tinged flash of large teeth. "Can't seem to aim well enough through the muck."

Neville nervously drew his very recently acquired cherry and unicorn hair wand. He cleared his throat again, and very clearly incanted.

"_Scourgify!"_

The mess disappeared, leaving the disoriented professor with the slightly pink look of a thorough scrubbing. The spell left not even the smallest stain behind. The giggles had calmed, and Harry heard a few jokes about the ease at which Neville cleaned things up. McGonagall, however, never overlooked an opportunity to reward her lions.

"Five points for a very skillful application of your lessons, Mr Longbottom," she called from the breakfast table.

"And another five for your…" Snape sneered. "_Kindness_ in assisting the helpless."

Neville's eyes bugged at that. The Slytherins stared at their head-of-house in confusion. Harry only grinned as the Gryffindors appraised the boy with a little more respect than they had before he stood.

In all, it was an excellent start to Harry's work.

On Thursday, Lockhart spent most of the morning exhibiting a gait worthy of the Ministry of Silly Walks. Eventually, one of his fans cast a _finite_ at him, ending his absurd footwork, but not before everyone had a good laugh. Friday brought with it uncontrollable flatulence, which the defence professor tried to pass off as the fault of others throughout the day. Eventually, his attempts to blame the loud, boisterous sounds on his students and colleagues alienated enough of his would-be helpers that he had to ask Madam Pomfrey to remove it.

The stern woman undid the jinx with a jab of her wand, publicly scolded him for interrupting her work on the actually afflicted, and demanded to know how he got through life if he couldn't figure out a simple counter-jinx. Her patient, a fifth-year who had foolishly attempted to curse away his acne, later reported Lockhart's shameful, fumbling retreat from the Matron's presence.

On Saturday, however, Harry took a break to catch up on his unfinished homework and to begin work on another project. Hermione, who had told her Hufflepuff friends about the venture, met her Slytherin friends in front of the Great Hall with Neville, Susan, Hannah, and several people the others didn't know as well, in tow. Jenny rushed from the head table to join the large group before it could leave, followed by several other students whose curiosity pulled them along. Harry led everyone down to a large stretch of flat lawn near the lake. His friends and schoolmates watched with interest as he unfurled a roll of parchment, spelled one side with an Impervius Charm, and enlarged it until the sheet covered a fifteen-by-twenty foot space. Hermione unpacked a blue grease pencil and several measuring instruments.

Mostly ignoring their spectators and working from a blueprint downloaded to Harry's sonic, the two carefully laid out a grid on the parchment, and Hermione began the tedious process of mapping out the edges of the envelope's pattern. Per their agreement with the nonbelievers of their acquaintanceship, they used no magic in measuring and drawing until they had reproduced the pattern for the envelope.

In the meantime, the others turned to conversations, or, in Hannah and Susan's case, fawned over Jenny Renette, who happily let the girls braid her wild red hair while she munched on apple slices. Eventually, the less invested of the audience wandered off for other pursuits, but those who stayed returned to an argument that had rapidly grown among those who had never seen an air ship.

"How can _nothing_ make something fly?" sighed Blaise Zabini.

"It's not nothing," Marietta Edgecombe disagreed. "Air's made up of air particles. How else do you blow up a balloon?"

"Balloons don't float unless you magic them to do it," the swarthy boy predictably answered. "And generally we just conjure ones that float to start with."

"Well," Neville offered slowly. "Assuming we're using a pre-made rubber balloon, maybe the spell we use doesn't work like the hover charm. Maybe it does something to the air in the balloon to make it lighter than the air outside."

"Ridiculous," echoed Zacharias Smith, a third-year who hadn't been invited to stay, but did since no one lacked manners enough to shoo him off. "This whole thing is idiotic."

"You just don't know anything about science-" a particularly chirpy voice mocked. "Harry's going to show you!"

"Like your lot could do anything better than wizards have done for centuries," Smith sneered. "When did muggles come up with this rubbish?"

"Muggles built the pyramids without magic thousands of years ago!" the indignant first-year objected.

"Only as far as you know!"

"Well _we _figured out how to go to the moon-"

Although Hannah and Susan seemed mostly unaffected by the argument going on around them, having become used to such loud debates in their last year of school, Jenny (whose only regular exposure to raised voices were with kids of her own age and relative size) shrank further and further away from the young witches and wizards, despite her desire to socialise with the older girls who clearly thought her adorable.

Her brother, who had been tuning out the chaos to confer with Hermione, noticed her anxious movement in the periphery of his vision. Although he tried to again ignore the argument (because it really was rather run-of-the-mill whenever kids of different backgrounds discussed non-magical vs. magical), his sister's obviously growing discomfort finally made it so he couldn't order his own thoughts, let alone keep up with Hermione's impressive processing. He felt her little hand grab his trouser leg and finally lost patience.

"Can everyone just shut it, please?" he finally shouted, gently squeezing his sister's hand in reassurance.

They went quiet, half-surprised that he'd yelled at all.

"How's a bloke to think when everyone's being so negative?" he said more evenly, smiling a little crookedly. "If you're so concerned about it, Tracy's still taking bets. Or, if you'd like to actually _do_ something, pick a side and start building. You're welcome to copy our blueprint, if you like, or you can owl-order one."

Attention returned to the task at hand, and an hour later the sceptics had duplicated the completed blueprint for their own part of the project.

"Right," Harry called, gesturing to the designs. "For those of you who haven't seen something like this before, this is a blueprint. We're going to follow this pattern to make sure we make the envelope – that's the balloon-ish gas chamber on top – nice and even. Since we're doing this by hand and Jen wants to pilot it, we're going to do everything we can to eliminate anything that might lead to leaks."

Hermione tapped Harry's sonic, which obligingly projected their complete design. They had opted for simplicity for the sake of time and cost. The airship featured a canoe-shaped, open gondola and simple framing below a non-rigid, oblong gasbag several times bigger. Its engine sat at the rear of the gondola along with a simple rudder.

"Since this is going to be a weekends-only project for the most part, the only labour-intensive parts are building the engine and the gasbag," the Hufflepuff paused and cast a challenging glare at Smith. "Unless anyone thinks non-magicals haven't managed boats by now, we're just going to order one and alter it as we need to. We're also going to order the materials, themselves."

"That seems fair," Blaise shrugged. "Smith's not helping, anyway, so ignore him."

Zacharias made a rude gesture, and Hermione hastily slapped a hand over Jenny's eyes.

"Aaanyway," Harry interjected over the sound of three angry Hufflepuffs bodily forcing the interloper away from their number. "I'll make sure Professor Smith has the catalogue I order from, and we should be able to start assembling things by mid-October."

Apparently satisfied with the projected schedule, everyone except Jenny, Neville, Hermione, Draco, and Daphne quickly wandered off to do other things with the initial tedium out of the way. After rolling up the blueprint and having Cuddie take it to Rose's office, the quintet and Jenny found a quiet spot under their favourite lakeside tree to enjoy a picnic of salami, cheese, fruit and French bread.

...

Monday, Harry returned to his previous mischief, though on a smaller scale. Homework had begun picking up, and in response to the school-wide interest in the dirigible, both McGonagall and Flitwick added a component to their theory work usually reserved for post-N.E.W.T. apprentices. To give their students a better grounding in the project and to settle progressively louder debates, they took a page from Rose's book and put together a simplified primer that outlined clearly and concisely what certain spells physically accomplished. For example, Flitwick broke down the levitation charm by explaining how it created negative gravity specific to the object itself, controlled entirely by the caster's intent. McGonagall, on the other hand, tackled conservation of mass in relation to conjuration to demonstrate why it was considered an advanced transfiguration. She explained how a wizard in 1920 had performed a series of experiments using gas chambers of different capacities to show objects were not simply summoned from another plane, as some had thought, but transfigured from the air molecules around the caster. She also included photographs of how the wizard, a descendent of the Gamp family, had expounded on the laws concerning the transfiguration of foodstuffs, liquids, and gasses. The photos displaying the results of what happened when such transfigurations ended were _not_ pretty.

The Doctor revelled in the excitement sweeping the students, and the other professors seemed reenergised in its wake, as well.

As a side effect to the additional reading and intellectual discourse, Harry had less time in which to cause mischief, but he still managed. Hermione again assisted him in creating time and proximity-triggered spells by drawing small rune arrays on stickers, which they anchored to the castle for power. After placement, a quick tap of the wand or five seconds of focusing charged the arrays. A notice-me-not hid them, and the fun began anew.

After the disastrous pixie incident, Lockhart wisely abstained from bringing creatures into his classroom, but after Harry enlisted his friends, none of his classes passed without at least a little entertainment. Oblivious to the hidden talismans, the professor stumbled into switching spells (which reversed the layering of his clothes and put his underwear over his outerwear), sticking charms (aimed at different clothing items by which to tether him), vanishing charms (for his flamboyant hats but affected his hairpiece as a side-effect), jelly-legs jinxes, levitation charms (which made re-enactments impossible), water-spout spells (which squirted him at random), and altering spells (which transfigured his robes into a potato sack with holes cut for his limbs).

Usually, someone in his class would take pity on him, but it took longer with each repetition, and the fans who once so admired him found themselves wondering at why he never undid the spells himself. Harry had been very deliberate in picking spells anyone under fourth year could manage. He also deliberately said and did nothing to protest participating in Lockhart's re-enactments whenever he dared move about his classroom. His unflustered reactions further confused the professor, and Harry used each occasion as an opportunity to question Lockhart's account of the adventure in question.

"It's amazing you managed to catch that thing with a tea-strainer," he said blandly after smoothing his robes and stretching after his release from a surprisingly well-done headlock. "And that you got there so quickly. I was reading through _Year With the Yeti, _and it must have been difficult going back and forth to Nepal that month. I didn't even know the Nepalese had portkey-access."

Lockhart always laughed uncomfortably and either made an absurd explanation or awarded Harry for pointing out the misprint, claiming he would scold his publisher for it later.

"It's a wonder he was a Ravenclaw," Daphne scoffed as they made their way toward the Quidditch Pitch the following Saturday morning.

Tryouts typically drew a large crowd from the castle, and they had departed from breakfast early so as not to fight with the traffic and risk lateness to their own trials. Harry shrugged and repositioned his broom over his other shoulder so he didn't have to speak through the bristles.

"Dad's asked around. Apparently, he's not a complete idiot. Dumbledore said he had a good mind when he came to school, but he was so full of himself he reacted rather badly when he realised he had to work to be lauded as an amazing wizard," Harry explained drily. "He must have spent all his time trying to make himself look good instead of trying to be good. So basically, he's lazy."

Tracy giggled on Daphne's other side, where she walked with their arms linked.

"Makes one wonder how he came up with those stories. Was he also too lazy to think of them himself? Is there a legion of well-paid writers locked in his basement?" she said with all the drama of a wireless commentator.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Draco interjected.

He jogged a little to catch up with them, still strapping on his chaser's gloves.

"He's got an actual Order of Merlin, even if it's third class," he reminded them. "More likely he's taking credit for someone else's achievements, or the Ministry wouldn't have awarded it after the verification process. There have to be witnesses, you know?"

"I suppose it's lucky everything he did happened abroad then, isn't it?" Tracy hummed. "Knowing Fudge's people, they only looked up the words for "vanquished" or "subdued" and for the monster in question before interviewing the locals."

They were still half-joking with wilder and wilder theorisations of how Lockhart game to fame when they reached the pitch, where everyone save Draco and Harry split off toward the stands. The boys had beaten their competition to the changing rooms, so they took their time checking their gear and donning their kits. Harry realised after he pulled up his jodhpurs he had forgotten to get his uniform resized. The legs weren't quite long enough to cover his ankles, and the robe was a lost cause. It fit just tightly enough across his back and under his arms to restrict a full range of motion, so he gave it up as a bad job. When he finished dressing, he looked up to find his friend still in his slacks and dark blue robe.

"What's wrong?"

The blonde ran a hand through his normally well-kept hair, leaving it sticking up in places, and nodded at a half-unwrapped parcel on the bench. Harry settled beside his mate with his broomstick over his shoulder.

"New broom?" he asked casually, eyeing the sleek black handle.

A shining plate tacked to the neck read _Nimbus 2001_. It was the newest model, an upgrade to Harry's own excellent racing broom.

"One of seven, I expect," Draco said dully. "I'm sure Snape's gotten the others by now and passed them on to Flint."

Harry shrugged.

"You never felt bad about using what you had to get what you wanted before now," he said lightly. "Why so glum?"

"The note."

Draco held up a slip of high quality, hand-pressed stationery embossed with the Malfoy family crest. Harry took it uneasily and read the few lines quickly.

_Draco,_

_Your mother and I wish you the best in today's trials. I'm sure you'll do admirably. As always, watch and listen. I expect you'll witness some excitement fairly soon. I await word of your placement on the team._

_-Your Father_

He frowned and handed it back, only for the boy to crumple it in his fist.

"It's O.K. if you don't make the team," he hedged, still confused. "They'd get over it if you didn't, but I doubt you wouldn't. Flint's a fanatic, and you're a brilliant chaser."

The blonde gave him a look that very eloquently said Harry was being thick.

"It's not that," he snapped. "It's…"

His expression pinched, and he huffed out a long breath.

"My parents have been fighting a lot lately, all right?" he admitted tersely. "About me, about political things, about everything. Oh, and Father seems to think I befriended you for my personal advancement."

"I know you haven't," Harry quickly interjected.

Draco forewent his usual sarcasm and smiled weakly.

"Anyway," he muttered. "I've advanced enough in occlumency that I can lie to him, and I didn't want to give him something else to blame my mother for, so I went along with it. He trusts my act because I'm careful to tell him things about you and the others, little things that really don't hurt anything, that he could probably learn if he asked someone else, so he thinks I'm still loyal to the cause."

Harry nodded and absently patted the place Kilat usually rested in her little satchel in response to his rising tension, only to realise he'd left her in his room.

"I know how much you've sacrificed to be my friend, Draco," he offered gently. "If it becomes to much, it's okay if you quit. He's still your dad, and he still loves you, no matter how twisted his political ideas might be."

The boy sneered and shook his head.

"It's not that I regret my decision last year. If anything, I'm vindicated. He's a petty man with small-minded ideals." The boy's cool grey eyes glinted as he met Harry's concerned gaze. "Father's unhappy with Weasley – Something to do with the muggle protection act and the ministry raids. He hasn't been able to buy enough votes to stop the raids or the legislation, so he's taken the matter into his own hands."

Draco licked his lips and ran another anxious hand through his hair.

"He was talking about doing something about it all summer. It's going to kill people, probably muggleborns, for all the sense that makes. I think he wants to scare people into siding with him when it comes to a vote next January," he said in a rush. "But the thing is, Mother didn't think Father could control it. She thought it could hurt me. She even threatened to keep me home from school. I thought Father had given it up, but this…"

"Oh," Harry breathed. "Oh!"

The seeker jumped to his feet, and blonde gave him an incredulous glare.

"Glad to see you so excited about murder," Draco muttered mutinously. "I'm serious!"

"Yes, yes, you are!" Harry quickly forced his grin to go away. "It's not that. Do you have an elf named Dobby?"

He blinked.

"What?"

"House elf, bat-like ears, big green eyes, wears a filthy pillowcase-"

The boy nodded and his brows drew together in confusion.

"Dobby came to warn me," Harry elaborated. "I think he knows what it is your dad's doing. Or, at least, enough to be really worried about what's going on. He even stole my letters to make me think you all didn't care for me, after all, so that I wouldn't want to come back."

The boy rubbed his forehead as if to ward of a headache.

"Just… What?"

"Yeah. Didn't say it was logical. The point is he was very concerned," the seeker continued. "Did you notice anything odd before you left for school?"

"Yes, now that you mention it," Draco grumbled. "My books kept disappearing. I had to get my robes fitted twice because the first set somehow got shrunk, and then, on the first, Father had to side-along me to the platform because the floos were malfunctioning. They kept rerouting me to my bedroom."

He laughed disbelievingly.

"I remember, now," he sighed. "Dobby knows you're the reason why I asked Father to let me be in charge of his punishments."

"His punishments?" Harry said sharply.

Draco had the grace to cringe.

"My father's always been cruel to him. I just wasn't brave enough to say anything. I was terrified of being like our 'lessers'," he admitted. "I asked to be in charge of Dobby's punishments to keep him safer. Made him wear fake bandages and such. I had to explain why so he'd stop wondering when I'd change my mind."

Harry felt his belly clench at the thought.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Both boys jumped at the sound of the heavy door slamming against the tiled wall, and Draco hastily threw out the remaining paper and threw on his gear as fast as he could. They rushed to leave the changing room, and Harry threw a bracing arm around his mate's shoulder once they were out of sight of the older boys.

"Don't worry too much," he encouraged him. "We'll figure it out. We'll tell the Doctor, later, and go from there. For now, you've got at least one other person to beat who's been on the team for longer than we've been here."

"That doesn't help," Draco said blandly. "And what can your parents do about? I don't even know what he's doing, really."

Harry shrugged and smiled.

"My dad's dealt with much worse than wizards, before. It'll work out."

"Worse than death eaters?" the blonde scoffed, shouldering his new broom.

"Ever heard of Daleks?"

"No," Draco frowned. "What the hell are those?"

"Kind of like death eaters," Harry explained. "Except, they don't age, really, and they're really, _really_ hard to stop because they're armoured and warded. They can shoot A-K's without a wand, and fly, and see through walls and stuff. There were millions. Non-mags know all about them. Well, all the ones in government do."

Draco's pale brows rose half way up his forehead.

"What happened to them, if they were that horrible?"

"Dad," Harry said simply.

Draco blinked, then grinned, and followed Harry out into the sunshine.

* * *

A/N: Ta-dah! I'm shooting for another update within a month. No promises though, still working on my motivation-generators.

Thank you all for your support and kindness, and to everyone else wrestling with invisible illnesses, you've my admiration and encouragement. I know we'll beat this, even if it takes a while. In the meantime, finding a buddy to help locate one's spoons helps a ton.

Love,

Ren


	9. Broken Truce

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Thanks everyone who reviewed! Keep them coming, please. They definitely motivate me to take better care of myself, and as a result, to take better care of this story. This chapter's a bit longer. Mist Shadow made an excellent point about the professor's magical ability and was completely right about Lockhart's abilities. I've remedied the discrepancy here.

On that note there will be times that I change things from cannon on purpose. I say this as a warning for down the line. This is an alternate universe with an alternate Harry and the Metacrisis Doctor, so expect some differences in characterization, setting, etc., here and there.

**Thanks again for reviewing.** I may not respond to every one of them individually, but I do read them all, and I love hearing what you think.

**To whomever nominated me for the BetterinTexas fanfic awards:** Thanks so much for your appreciation. I'm honored. I believe folks can vote on facebook if anyone cares to do so.

* * *

Chapter Nine – Broken Truce

* * *

**21 September 2013**

Daphne and Hermione sat in the stands with Neville, a little ways apart from the Slytherin spectators who pointedly ignored them, while the Slytherin team hopefuls lined up on the pitch below. Harry and Draco weren't the only two vying for spots on the team. Flint remained the team captain, and no one expected he'd give up his position to play reserve, so it seemed fairly certain he'd be a chaser again. Nearly twenty other Slytherins joined the existing team on the field, many of them second and third years. Crabbe and Goyle stood with other prospective beaters, along with Millicent Bulstrode, who had looked like she had grown half a foot over the summer.

But Hermione and Neville didn't waste time speculating about the outcome of the trials, content to let the Slytherin among them give her analysis of the political play unfurling below.

"It's just for show, of course," she explained. "Everyone already knows Draco's going to be on the team because his father sent Professor Snape a full set of Nimbus 2001s this morning, and Harry's too good to risk leaving off, so that just leaves three spots. Shafiq's a good player, but he's a little too decent and a little too foreign for Flint's tastes, especially compared to Montague, who everyone knows wants to be a chaser, too. Although–"

Daphne paused and eyed the other candidates.

"Shafiq knows all of that, too, so he'll be going for keeper. He has the reflexes to manage."

Hermione frowned as a handful of fliers took to the sky, passing quaffles in a drill designed to test their coordination and dexterity.

"That's horrible, Daph," she admonished. "I haven't a clue how you all manage not to kill one another when all your housemates are ranking you like that."

The brunette shrugged.

"It's only politics," she said simply. "We keep our differences civil, for the most part. We're just more honest about the way the world works than your average Puffs and Gryffs. The majority of our house comes from old or positioned families, and that comes with a certain pressure to perform. It may not be moral to your self-imposed standards, but we're very aware of how the hierarchy works."

"Well," Neville grumbled. "What about Pucey?"

The Slytherin smiled.

"Adrian? Oh, he and Harry are still cordial, but he decided not to try out this time around. He's rather gifted in Ancient Runes, and he's trying to take the O.W.L. early rather than have twelve classes next year. He said he'd rather cram over the next two summers and take the N.E.W.T. independently, after, but he needs the O.W.L. score to qualify."

Hermione hummed an impressed sort of sound and scanned the rest of the Slytherin crowd for the boy in question.

"And Shafiq bribed him, of course," Daphne added.

Her Hufflepuff friend sighed deeply, and Neville laughed at them both but was cut short as a bludger zoomed close over the stands. They ducked and whistled for Bulstrode, who rapidly caught up with the projectile to send it hurtling toward Crabbe.

By the end of the hour and per Daphne's predictions, Flint picked Shafiq for keeper, Montague and Draco for chasers, Harry (who had not been contested), and Millicent with Kyle Hooper (who returned from last year). He also chose several reserve players, but Daphne assured them the second-string players would never participate in a game unless someone died, so important the team members thought their roles.

However, the topic of conversation they chose at some point between leaving the stands and walking toward the castle thoroughly distracted Hermione to the point she couldn't spare a thought to the roster.

Hermione enjoyed being a Hufflepuff immensely, although she had found it a little difficult during those first days of her first year to reel in her tendency of overwhelming people with her overlarge capacity for information. She credited Susan Bones most for her steep learning curve in that department. The girl had very helpfully pulled her aside and explained something Hermione had never considered before.

"Why do you feel it's so important to know so much and share all that with everybody?" she had asked, not unkindly.

She had answered immediately.

"Well, I think knowledge is the best way to get anywhere in life."

She remembered Susan laughing, then, and she was nearly upset by it and would have been very hurt if not for what the girl said afterward.

"Then you should be in Ravenclaw, but you're not. You're here. I think you want friends, and I think you want to _do_ something with that huge brain of yours," she smiled gently. "Hannah and I feel maybe you're measuring yourself by how much you know, but I don't think you realise how you affect everyone around with you the way you use that knowledge. You don't have to be the smartest for people to like you. You're nice, and that's enough for most. Just something to think about."

The girl had not understood what Susan meant at the time, but she recognised Susan wasn't trying to be mean to her, so she quietly went to bed that night thinking about the girl had said. She spent the next few days watching Harry Potter, because she knew he was just as clever as she was. She listened to her dormmates and classmates, and quickly saw that her encyclopaedic-fire-hose method of interacting never connected with anyone. Susan had been right, and she came to understand she was worth a whole lot more than a studying partner. The revelation came nearly a week into classes, and several things clicked into place for her that never had before. All of a sudden, she had a whole dormitory of friends who wanted to know her opinion on things rather than what she knew about their homework topics. She didn't feel like she was stuck in a bubble anymore – a sensation she'd carried with her all through primary school.

As a result, she started to enjoy all sorts of conversations exploring a wide range of topics, but none of her prior experiences prepared her for Daphne's new favourite point of discussion.

"So, do you 'Puffs have a ranking?" the brunette asked casually.

Hermione blinked as she tried to wrap her mind around the idea. She had the feeling she'd missed something earlier in the conversation.

"What?"

Hannah and Susan giggled ahead of them on the path.

"What?" she asked again, a little indignantly.

"Oh, Cedric Diggory's definitely first," Hannah offered. "Someone managed to plant Filibuster's Wet-Start Fireworks in the boy's bathroom last year, and he came upstairs in naught but a towel."

"What?" Hermione gasped, blushing scarlet at the unbidden mental image. "When was that? A-and what in the world brought that up?"

Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Were you not paying attention, Granger? The ranking. I just said Wallerston's leading ours, followed by Pucey, Ford and Swami, although _I_ think Abje's only that low on the list because the others consider him too foreign. His face should make him first on any scale, including the boys'."

"What?" the bushy-haired girl asked again. "We're ranking boys?"

"Aren't you supposed to be the cleverest student in our year?" Daphne complained. "Do try to keep up."

Hermione felt Susan link arms with her and lean in conspiratorially. Her strawberry-blonde hair caught the breeze to tickle her friend's face, and the girl impatiently batted at her unapologetic assailant, who responded by jabbing her in the ribs.

"Don't tell me you don't find anyone handsome?" Hannah teased. "Lockhart cuts an impressive figure."

Her friends snorted or made some other sound of disbelief or humour. She huffed and kicked a pebble on the path with unnecessary force. It skipped across the slightly damp earth to disappear in the grass.

"I might have thought so if I never heard him open his mouth," Daphne sympathised. "Oh, and if I hadn't found out the 'gorgeous waves of spun gold' were a wig."

"I just don't think it matters all that much!" Hermione insisted. "I mean, aren't we opposed to that objectifying rubbish?"

"You can't tell me you never look," Susan giggled. "Don't you fancy-"

"No! Don't you dare!" Hermione gasped, flushing scarlet. "I know where you sleep, Bones!"

The others exploded in a round of giggles so infectious that, by the time they reached the castle with Neville (who had gamefully ignored their conversation in favour of chatting with Dean Thomas), Hermione mostly forgot her embarrassment.

…

In the pitch, the newly minted team mounted their brooms and immediately launched into their first training exercises for the season. Flint, ever the hard taskmaster, started them on sprints back and forth from goalpost to goalpost. His amplified voice called harsh criticism for any flier whose tumble turn lacked precision or speed enough to satisfy his high standards. The burly fifth-year set of a cannon-blast with his wand, and the green blurs slowed to hover around their captain.

"All right, you lot," he ground out after cancelling the amplification. "We're going to do a practice game to see how dull you got over the summer."

He turned to shout over his shoulder.

"RESERVES! GET 'YER LAZY ARSES UP HERE!"

The previously relaxed group on the ground rapidly mounted the seven Nimbus 2000s (also gifted by Lucius Malfoy specifically for the reserves' use), and shot into the air. Flint shot a spell at the trunk below to release the snitch and bludgers, blew his whistle, and sent another spell at the quaffle to launch it into the air. A muted cheer swept the moderately full stands, where most of Slytherin had taken seats to watch the daring flight. Flashes went off in one of the teacher's boxes, signalling the castle's resident shutterbug's presence. Someone screamed, and a sound of combined anxiety and excitement swelled over the pitch as a figure dove toward the ground. Regardless of house, anyone within hearing distance of the quarter-full stadium heard the shouts, all praising one name:

_POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!_

The screams only grew louder with the boy's tightly controlled turn to chase the elusive snitch over the stands. As if sensing its hunter's rapid gain, the little gold ball halted midair and reversed direction, but instead of slowing from his neck-breaking speed, the boy barrel-rolled. He clung to the broom with interlocked legs and one straining arm. The other restrained the snitch. Quick, blinding flashes went off on the other side of the pitch.

_POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!_ the students screamed.

One spectator, however, slunk back in his seat with an ugly snarl twisting his face.

"You see what I mean, Rita?" he said with a tone of affected exasperation. "Dangerous stunts, exactly as I told you."

The witch he addressed smirked and adjusted her jewel-encrusted spectacles, and her magenta lips curled in a parody of concern. On her knee, an acid green quill skipped back and forth across a notepad, rapidly recording her thoughts and the details it detected around the pair.

"Oh yes, Gilderoy, I see exactly what you mean," she simpered. "It's so very lucky you've decided to mentor him, isn't it? Such unseemly behaviour and undue adulation can't be good for a young man."

"My thoughts exactly," Lockhart flashed his blindingly white teeth. "Unfortunately, he's not been very receptive to my tutelage. It's a shame, indeed, since he is such a bright young boy. He's a delight in classes, always willing to assist in demonstrations, makes near-perfect marks in all his classes. I just think all this attention, what with that business with You-Know-Who, combined with the little incident last year-"

Rita twisted one of her white-blonde curls around her forefinger. Her murky green eyes glinted with interest, and she leaned forward.

"I'm so sorry, but I've not the slightest idea what you're referring to," she gushed. "You _must_ tell me everything."

Lockhart's ever-present grin widened, and the smile lines around his eyes crinkled.

"Dear Lady, I'd do anything to assist our young Mr Potter. I do think with your assistance, we'll steer him on the right path, indeed."

* * *

**1 October 2013**

He woke to a tickle in his ear. Harry swiped lightly at the feeling, but it persisted to travel over his cheek and under his nose. Grumbling, he cracked open sleep-crusted eyes and huffed at the little face looking back at him.

"_It's too early_," he complained. "_Can't it wait?"_

"_A female waits outside,"_ Kilat hissed, raising her head a little higher to peer into her human's eyes. _"Sshe is upssset. She radiatesss heat."_

"_Fine,"_ the boy huffed.

He sat up slowly so as not to disturb the snake unduly and offered her his wrist. The serpent, who had grown too large for her pouch, happily wrapped around the proffered limb with an affectionate squeeze. Harry summoned his dressing gown and glasses with an absent twirl of his fingers. He shrugged on the warming charmed garment with a small groan of relief. Unfortunately, the spell failed to affect his toes. Too tired to discover why they hadn't come at his beckoning, and unwilling to dig in his dresser for a pair of socks, he endured the chilling flagstones for the short walk to his door. As his familiar promised, a girl stood there with her arms crossed over her chest and a _Prophet_ tucked in her elbow.

"About bloody time," Daphne whispered, her eyes flashing.

Building on the precedent she set the previous year, she pushed past him without waiting for his invitation and plopped unceremoniously into the armchair beside the round stove.

"Good morning to you, too," Harry griped.

He closed the door and shuffled closer to the heat source, by which he'd thrown down a fluffy shag rug requisitioned by the ever-industrious Cuddie from Hogwarts' many storerooms. His toes tingled at their proximity to the sudden warmth. Kilat, who deeply disliked the cold seeping into the castle as the last dregs of summer faded away, hissed an unintelligible sound of delight.

"No, it's not," she snapped at her normal volume. "Have you read anything by Rita Skeeter?"

The boy blinked and yawned, shaking his head.

"I've seen her by-line under sensationalist headlines," he mumbled. "I made a point to read other journalists' work."

"Excellent, then I'm sure this won't surprise you overmuch, then."

Daphne thrust her copy of _The Daily Prophet_ under his nose, and Harry reluctantly unrolled it to take in the front page. The headline glared up at him from the top edge of the page, stretching its entire width in bold, crisp Serif typeface. Underneath, a hugely blown-up photograph followed his rapid dive toward the Quidditch pitch. Somehow, the photographer had managed to zoom in on his face. His hair had blown back to uncover his scar, his eyes gleamed, and his grin stretched maniacally across his face.

Any Quidditch player would identify with that feeling, but juxtaposed beside its headline, Harry had no doubt what reaction the story would elicit.

...

_**Boy-Who-Lived Out of Control: Desperate or Deranged?**_

_Mentors and Teachers Concerned_

_Oct. 1, 2013 – Sr. Correspondent Rita Skeeter_

_Sunshine streamed down on the green Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Students of every house gathered to watch this year's tryouts or put their names forward in hopes of joining their house teams. With such a talented pool to pull from, it is no wonder hundreds of students left the shadowed indoors to watch the excitement unfold. Children came and went with their favourites and cheered on their friends; however, no applicant drew more attention than the Boy-Who-Lived. _

_At first glance, 12-year-old Harry Potter appears unremarkable and undistinguishable from his year-mates. One might not notice him amongst his fellow Slytherins at all if viewed in a crowd, but closer inspection reveal traits not everyone might admire. _

"_He's a bit smaller than I like for our aggressive tactics," said 5__th__ year team captain and chaser Marcus Flint, 15. "But I knew the minute he got on a broom that he'd lead us to the cup. We haven't lost a game since he started as our seeker."_

_Further discussion with his housemates revealed differing opinions on their youngest teammate, however. _

"_He bullied his way on," said 6__th__ year Slytherin Quinn Jorgensen, 17. "Everyone knows it. No one has the nerve to say anything to him because of his parents and his lackeys. After he killed that troll last year, he's gotten away with everything he's wanted."_

_Further investigation corroborated Jorgensen's claim concerning the troll, which reportedly entered the castle Oct. 31 last year by way of an unsecured drainage tunnel. Students agreed the late professor Quirinus Quirrell said he witnessed the beast wandering Hogwarts' hallowed halls. His colleagues and the headmaster reportedly responded to the threat quickly and efficiently, and had circumstances proceeded as one might have expected from the school's capable professorship, except for one boy's actions._

"_He wouldn't listen to Prefect Walters," Jorgensen said with a deep scowl. "He rushed off by himself before anyone could stop him. The professors had already gone after [the troll], so there wasn't anything the other prefects could do without putting the rest of us in danger."_

_Second-year Slytherin Pansy Parkinson, 12, explained the aftermath._

"_He got back to the common room within thirty minutes of our arrival, covered in white dust and soaked with water. He was still holding his wand, and he really stunk," she said. "He was covered head-to-toe in grey blood. We found out the next morning he'd killed it. Slytherin won a tonne of points for 'saving a fellow student', but mostly everyone was scared what else he could do if he could slay a fully-grown mountain troll."_

_Parkinson elaborated Potter had involved three of his year-mates and friends in the dangerous enterprise, which would have killed one of them if not for the skills and efforts of Hogwarts' resident healer, Poppy Pomfrey, 62. Professor for defence against the dark arts class Gilderoy Lockhart, 32, expressed his own concern over the Wizarding World's alleged saviour and also revealed another side to the boy who had charmed so many. _

"_I was ever so surprised to receive his letter," Lockhart explained with a modest smile. "I had long ago thought to make myself available to Harry in case he needed someone to talk to. No one knew where he was or whom he was living with, so I sent him a note with a little about myself and my own experiences with those harmed by the dark arts. I thought to be a comfort to him after all he'd lost. I almost overlooked his letter because it got sorted with my fan mail, but the muggle postage marks stood out."_

_The professor recounted what he thought to be Potter's plea for help in better understanding his place in the society he had so recently returned to. The two exchanged letters throughout the summer, and their mentor-apprentice relationship grew until they agreed to meet at Lockhart's book signing in Diagon Alley Aug. 1__st__. The professor loosed a long sigh and lost his expression of good cheer. _

"_I had thought to formally reintroduce Harry into society, as we'd discussed, since he had few allies and no knowledge of his rich heritage. I also wanted to surprise him with my new appointment as professor, which I specifically pursued in order to be a greater help to the Boy-Who-Lived," Lockhart said and frowned. "But when he joined me at my table, I immediately felt something was wrong, and what followed only confirmed my suspicions. He denied our friendship, and used my confusion in order to pull his own sort of publicity stunt. I didn't hold it against him, though. Quite the contrary. He's a child, and it was my fault for not fully preparing him for that sort of attention."_

_Lockhart made a gesture of helplessness and smiled as he watched his young protégé fly across the pitch below. _

"_After I met him again at school and became acquainted with his parents, the professors Smith, I finally understood. His desire to speak to me hadn't come from honest curiosity and humbleness, as I'd thought, but a crippling need to be valued."_

_Third-year Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith, 13, opened up about the previously unknown wizard and his wife. He described them as cripplingly intelligent and said their appearances rivalled their prodigious skill._

"_You wouldn't think it since she's a squib, but Professor [Roselyn] Smith has taught us a lot already about what muggles have done to modernise. She's completely changed the course, and there's talk the International Education Coalition will certify her curriculum for N.E.W.T. certification," he explained. "But Potter's off his rocker. I don't know what happened there. Maybe he feels inadequate next to them."_

_Lockhart expanded on the young Hufflepuff's musings with his own observations. He said while they often eat meals and assist their biological daughter in her studies, they're rarely seen in their adoptive son's company. _

"_Now I can't blame them, of course," said the defence professor with a shrug. "It's entirely understandable, really. Of course, a man has to provide for his family, and what better way to keep a close eye on a child so in need of guidance than teaching at his school? I think the trouble is that dear Rose may not have realised how large a job teaching at a magical school should be. Poor thing's probably so frantic to impress the community and the headmaster that she's let a few things slip. Easy to do, you know, even with magical ability. She can't help it."_

_Meanwhile, Potter's trend of needlessly involving himself in dangerous situations continues. Last year's 'Troll Incident,' as the students of Hogwarts refer to it, preceded a confrontation with Quirrell himself over the Philosopher's Stone, which had been granted to the school in trust so as to ensure the future of generations to come. _

"_He was possessed," Pomfrey said in relation to the attempted theft. "How Potter got mixed up in it, I'll never know, but that poor boy spent a week in one of my beds for all his silly heroics."_

_Public records show Quirrell as deceased as of June 8. No witnesses were available to comment on what happened in the stone's repository or what caused Quirrell's mysterious demise, but students and staff speculate Potter and Quirrell engaged in a violent confrontation resulting in mortal injuries to the late professor. _

"_I think that mess sparked a sort of addiction in the poor boy," said Lockhart. "If I had known, I would have never pulled him in front of an audience before he was ready."_

_After their meeting in Diagon Alley and the subsequent start of term, Potter allegedly turned to other methods by which to place himself in the spotlight. In addition to practicing dangerously advanced spells in and outside of classes, year-mates said his mania for advancement and recognition often shows itself onto the pitch. The accompanying photo shows the child's exhilaration in the face of possible death risked for public lauding. Classmates and teachers both agree he takes unnecessary risks in the name of showmanship, and often experiences near misses with bodily harm to himself and others. Professors specifically noted his work on building a muggle airship, which he intends to fly without magic upon its completion with his friends, placing them in danger. _

"_It's all my fault, really, since I got him started before I realised where his head was at," said Lockhart with moisture in his eye. "Therefore, I've committed to helping him return to the right path and to sort out the confusion he must be feeling. No matter what, I refuse to let him go it alone. He's an asset to our world, and someone ought to do take him under wing, so why not me?"_

_Parkinson, who lamented the loss of several of her friends to Potter's influence, worried about the young boy's mental and emotional development combined with his apparent power. _

"_Of course, I hope Professor Lockhart can help him, but I also think there may come a time when we all just need to let go of the idea we grew up with," she said with a frown and furrowed brow. "Harry Potter's just not the boy we all thought him to be, and he's a danger to himself and everyone around him. Everyone's terrified to see what he does next."_

.

Harry's mouth worked soundlessly. His brain picked up on the important parts after so many years of studying with his dad's tutelage and the Doctor's frankly ridiculous toolbox of memorisation techniques, but that didn't make it easier for him to accept.

Lockhart had gone to Skeeter, gossip columnist extraordinaire, in order to publicly establish himself as an authority figure in his life, and he'd set the stage by disparaging his mother's parenting skills and painting him as some adrenaline junky with an emotional imbalance and possible mental illness.

The comments about Rose grated him worst of all. The students of Hogwarts knew Harry well enough to either dismiss or ignore the article in fear of self-alienation. Despite his placement in Slytherin, his friends and close acquaintances across every house made it impossible for rumours to spread too far before someone righted the record. His mum, however, only had a month's exposure to the students at Hogwarts, and only to the very small portion that either attended her classes or participated in the dirigible project. Lockhart had painted her as either an incapable or uncaring mother neglecting her duty toward her son. The article as a whole very efficiently blamed his instability on her alleged failings.

"My brother has friends who work at the _Prophet_," Daphne explained while his brain worked to sort through his reeling thoughts. "He forwarded me a copy when he realised some of the article was about what happened last year. They haven't actually gone out, yet, but I thought you might want to see before it disrupted breakfast."

"Shush," he snapped. "Just give me a minute to think."

Kilat massaged Harry's wrist in an affectionate, undulating squeeze, and the sensation grounded him enough to refocus. He pulled together the disparate memories, observations, and ideas flashing across his mind's eye like rapidly played video clips. Under soothing brush of her inherent magic and the familiar warmth of her smooth scales, his vacillating emotions calmed, and he quickly settled on a way forward.

"All right," he finally breathed. "If you want to come with me, I'm going to wake Mum and Dad. And Dumbledore'll need to do something about it if random strangers are coming onto the grounds without his permission, and we can ask him to make a formal statement to the prophet to clear up some of the misconceptions. We can have my parents call him to their quarters, even."

Daphne flipped her long flaxen hair over her shoulder, and the tense line between her brows deepened.

"Harry, dear, the sort of people who follow Lockhart's endeavours and read those silly books about you aren't the smartest lot," she quipped. "They're petty and mean-spirited, and an article like that is going to whip up a backlash in line with the _Reconquista_. A statement in the paper isn't going to do much."

The boy stared at her incredulously.

"People bound books with the skins of their enemies in those conflicts."

The girl's sharp eyes narrowed.

"Our society is based, as you say, on automatic wish fulfilment, and we arm our eleven-year-olds with lethal weapons," she deadpanned. "There's a reason why Weasley's pushing the Muggle Protection Act so strongly. Did you think I woke you up at four in the morning because I thought this was going to be a minor embarrassment and inconvenience?"

Harry sighed but nodded his acknowledgement. He rose slowly to his feet, noting for the first time that Daphne had already dressed for the day in her usual crisply pressed robes.

"Today, if you please? I rather like your mother and would rather not have to deal with you or the Doctor if she's irreparably damaged by the end of the day because someone put an ashwinder in an exploding envelope."

Kilat hissed her displeasure at the prospect of someone killing a fellow serpent so callously. Harry grimaced at the idea of an ever-burning magical snake coming into contact with flesh. He hissed a soft, soothing word to his familiar and made a twisting motion with his wrist. Daphne's armchair twirled rapidly, making its occupant squeak in surprise from her new position facing the wall.

"You could have just asked," she huffed a little petulantly.

Her housemate rolled his eyes as he pulled on his clothes and summoned Pepper-Up from the depths of his everything-trunk.

"Would you have listened?"

He straightened his tie, righted the chair's position, and opened the door for the girl, who sauntered out ahead of him with her usual good humour somewhat restored.

"Of course not," she smirked. "But if you really cared beyond what propriety dictated, you'd have put on your serious face and sincerely made your wishes known to me ages ago."

Harry flushed and felt immensely happy Daphne didn't understand parseltongue when Kilat voiced her interpretation of his raised temperature and heartrate.

"_Human hormones are ssstrange."_

…

Contrary to Daphne's expectations, the Doctor and Rose responded to the obvious challenge and with shrugs and smiles. Harry, she noted, seemed more concerned than either of his parents, who simply grinned and assured their son they had things in hand.

"Don't worry," Rose winked as she spread butter on her toast. "Your mum's unwritten time before. I can handle a few bored housewives and fan-boys."

The Doctor poked his head out of the kitchen. Daphne watched with mild surprise and appreciation as the man flipped an omelette one-handed without ever looking at the pan.

"Also, stop worrying about Draco's dad and Dobby," he commanded with an easy grin. "We've got some ideas to help the poor chap, and our castle-wide map-and-monitoring system's nearly online. Everything'll be fine, really. Oh, and stop building confounding spells into your guerrilla warfare. I know it's funny to watch him flounder about and wonder what's wrong with his wand, but you really ought to give him a chance to use countermeasures. On the same note, I definitely would not not _not_ disapprove somewhat escalated tactics in light of trying to smear your mum."

Rose rolled her eyes.

"I _do_ disapprove of anything really physically or mentally harmful," she sighed a little regretfully. "He's a prat, but we've got rules about that sort of thing, assuming he doesn't point his wand at anyone."

The paper arrived that morning to a mixed reception. Those who did not like Harry for one reason or another enjoyed the read, and those who fawned over the defence professor seemed to pity him. However, after Harry's two-week vendetta against the supposed authority on his 'emotional instability,' most did as he had predicted and laughed. The Weasley twins, who Harry hadn't much talked with since the beginning of term, even went out of their way to warn people of his arrival whenever they passed in the halls.

"Watch out! Potter's clearly unhinged-" George cried, swooning into his brother's arms.

Fred caught his twin in a dramatic embrace.

"Nooooo!" he moaned in a high-pitched vibrato. "He's killed you with his friendship. We should have known better than to share that cake with him!"

The utter ridiculousness of it effectively snuffed out the possibility of negative reactions from Harry's peers. Anyone who spoke badly of him based on the article quickly found themselves at the butt of the twins' and others' jokes.

But the morning after the story broke, a legion of owls flew into the great hall, many bearing scarlet envelopes and strangely wrapped parcels. Rose eyed the swarming flock, calmly stood, slipped the Doctor's faithful screwdriver into her hand, and released a high-pitched, trilling hum on the unwitting messengers. A moment later, the owls bearing unsolicited mail for her had left the way they came.

"Dare I ask?" Snape drawled from his usual seat on the woman's left.

"Made them all think I was elsewhere," she hummed, retaking her seat with a sly smile.

The potions master quirked a dark brow rather than voicing the obvious question.

"Oh, somewhere over the Atlantic, I think," her stormy green eyes glinted with mischief. "But some might have gotten confused and returned to sender, too."

He smirked. The students watching their interplay wisely decided there was more to the supposed squib than they thought, and the castle quickly calmed to its pre-scandal state. Some students still spoke badly about her, but no more than they did about any professor they didn't like.

Once reassured of his family's continued safety and overwhelmingly positive reputation among the students, Harry and his friends nullified their cease-fire in favour of more drastic measures than heretofore considered. Hermione, who felt especially indignant over the implications of the article against her friends and against her gender, dove back into the invention of retaliatory strategies with the maniacal fervour she usually reserved for research. Hannah and Susan seemed not to mind sitting by her for hours, working on homework while she pored over obscure texts detailing runes of every language and arrangement.

Under the Doctor's new guidelines, their work reached new heights of deviousness. To that end, Harry called upon the most feared and respected mischief-makers in the castle. Contrary to what the gingers' marks and attitude implied, Harry, the Ravenclaws, and most of the Slytherins had quickly realised the twins could not be measured by what they were seen to be doing.

No, most knew enough to judge them by the things that went unseen.

This reasoning led Harry to don his cloak late on a Friday night and creep through the halls to the second floor, where the library's upper level entrance opened directly into the restricted section. His scanner undid the locking and recognition charms built into the door, and a slightly higher pitched frequency smoothly pushed the bolt back into its chamber. The heavy oak panel silently swung open and closed a moment later with a soft _click_.

In the dark and stillness, and in the absence of its usual occupants, the library seemed to breathe with a life of its own. A tingle slid down the back of Harry's neck, and the smell of books mingled with the subtle flavour of Hogwarts' own, ancient magic. Without his wand lighting the way, the boy moved slowly among the floor-to-ceiling shelves to avoid teetering stacks of books, askew chairs, and the occasional uneven flagstone. He followed the zinging sensation he had come to recognise as other wizards, and before long had made his way into the 'Special Access' portion of the Restricted Section.

Whereas the staff of Hogwarts limited certain areas of the library based on age and special-case bases, very few ever received permission to pass the wrought iron gate barring entry to the schools' most precious and dangerous texts. Magic was dangerous as it was wonderful, and a good part of the founders' reasoning behind building an institution in the first place was to discourage independent study without a little training and grounding. To go against such wisdom often led to catastrophic results.

Harry remembered a little ruefully that the Doctor had learned that lesson the hard way. The idea he could harness the power woven into his Time Lord DNA by wielding a focus had been a little too tempting for him before he began work on his masteries. Armed with a wand and a screwdriver, the Doctor secluded himself in a time-locked lab in Torchwood for the specific purpose of testing the limits of magic before he even begun scientific trials. According to his uncle Jack, ten minutes of real time passed before the Doctor pushed the emergency release button inside the lab. He returned to his friends ashen-faced, and firmly told everyone (including Torchwood's new Wizless-born recruits) to never, ever, ever follow his example.

When Harry asked his father to elaborate on Captain Jack's recollection, the usually cheerful man sighed and ran his hands over his face.

"I might have accidentally reached across realities and nearly unmade everything. I managed to make it so it'd fix itself, but it was a very close thing," he explained. "The other me had to re-do the big bang with him at the centre of it all. We talked a bit and he managed to find away to recreate himself with a friend's help, but it was a near thing. Anyway, I nearly made a mess of things for us, too. So, yeah. Really, really, really, really not good."

Fortunately, most wizards lacked the deep knowledge the Doctor possessed, so they were less likely to break time or reality or anything in between. Still, that left quite a bit of mischief to be made. In little over a year spent in and learning about magical society and magic itself, they discovered wizards had often caused quite a lot of trouble throughout history. The vampire species began as a demon summoning gone awry. 'Demons,' as it turned out, were merely beings pulled across dimensions. They could be as large as giant squids or as miniscule as a bacterium – Which explained the sudden appearance of the Black Plague and the absence of any natural resistances to it among humans. Attempts to delve into magic, the vortex itself, usually resulted in the death of the person who initiated the exploration. It was also possible to create a black hole, to harness enough energy to channel it into a weapon of mass destruction, and to encapsulate rifts in time.

The Restricted Section's age-regulated area held tomes that posed dangers to the users themselves and anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. The Special Access area of the Restricted Section delved into those studies that had the potential to wipe populations off the map or poke holes in other dimensions.

Unnatural dark loomed in the space behind the gate of twisting wrought-iron vines and leaves. The scant starlight filtering through the windows and skylights seemed not to touch the metal, and Harry couldn't see the continuation of the tall bookshelves between which the portal stood. The boy gripped his wand tight in his right hand and his scanner in his left. The pad of his thumb swiped across its screen. A low, whirring hum cut the tingling, ringing stillness. Finally, the sonic signalled the end of its work with a slightly higher-pitched note, and the gate swung forward into the shadows. His fingers adjusted the grip on his wand, and he took a tentative step forward. He still couldn't make out the bookshelves on either side of him, though he felt their proximity.

Harry felt strongly reminded of a scene from Disney's Aladdin and wildly hoped a giant sand creature wasn't about to crush him in its gaping maw.

Walking blind, he continued on with a death grip on his wand and a torchlight spell on the tip of his tongue. The spell-muffled tap of his trainers against stone sounded like metal-toed dancing shoes to his straining ears. His breath felt quick and raspy. The zing of electricity against his skin strengthened.

"What was that?"

The whisper froze him, his heart racing, until his brain caught up and assigned the voice to its owner. Smiling with relief, Harry removed the cloak and stuffed the unnaturally light, liquid-like fabric into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

"Fred?" he hissed. "George?"

A sharp, papery shuffle answered him, and he had to fight the urge to throw a banishing hex when he felt two hands wrap around his biceps and pull him forward. The horrible, oppressive dark disappeared, and suddenly the starlight looked bright against the stone and woodwork of the perfectly normal-looking aisle.

"How'd you find us?" the twin on his left asked.

"How'd you get through that?" his brother added.

After the building tension in his gut, the Slytherin had to fight the urge to laugh just to release his nerves.

"You're both too good at what you do to be studying the normal fare, and no one ever sees you in here, so I figured you were sneaking in," he explained, settling on a wide grin. "Is that some sort of spell you cast back there?"

The twins exchanged a mildly impressed look, shrugged, and crossed their arms simultaneously. Without his brain racing with the possibilities of what horrors lay ahead of him in the deepest depths of the library – he fought another laugh at that – his senses returned to their usual level of close-proximity awareness, and easily determined the identity of each ginger.

"Yeah," George smirked. "It's not as good as Peruvian instant darkness powder-"

"We're going to import that stuff whenever we save up enough to start our bigger enterprises-" Fred cut in.

"-But it's pretty good in a pinch. Found it in here, actually," the former continued. "It's a ward that completely blocks light from passing through, kind of the opposite of what an invisibility cloak does."

Harry filed that away as a topic to research later, while the twins tilted their heads in sync to examine him with calculating stares.

"So what can we do for you?" they said together.

Still feeling a bit giddy, he couldn't help breathing a soft laugh.

"Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you."

What followed would later be remembered as one of the most entertaining weeks in Hogwarts' recent history.

And so, while reports of potions and transfiguration accidents swept the United Magical Kingdom of Great Britain, Scotland, and Northern Ireland resultant of returned envelopes of questionable origins, a certain professor found himself visiting Madam Pomfrey's domain far more often than any other resident of Hogwarts.

* * *

Professor Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't an idiot, as Harry had told his friends, but he _was_ proud.

After two weeks of finding himself inexplicably incapable of undoing spell effects Lockhart _knew_ he could unravel – Most had, after all, affected his outward appearance, and he spent more time and magic on his looks than anyone else he knew – The professor felt eager to regain the respect owed him by his students and admirers. So when Harry resumed his attacks on Lockhart's person, as he thought he might, the professor knew he needed to make a spectacular recovery. He had an audience to impress and educate, after all.

The trouble had begun unexpectedly, as always.

Lockhart frowned and paused as he stood from his desk while the most curious sensation he'd ever experienced washed over him. He frowned at his class of sixth-years, which quietly continued working without so much as glancing at him. He experimentally wiggled his toes in his boots and ran a hand through his hair, only to pause as he caught a glance of himself in the reflecting dish standing beside his desk.

Potter had decided to dress him as a pink creature of some sort. He sighed after a closer examination. He _looked_ like a pink cat-creature had attempted to swallow him. His head seemed hooded in pink and crowned with a pink feline face, snout and rounded ears. His hands appeared encased in oversized paw-like gloves. He also observed a long, blunt, twitching pink tail waving at him over his shoulder.

He rubbed his hands together, though, and felt his palms touch without impediment, and he still recognised the delightful brush of silk against his skin. Thus assured he hadn't _actually_ lost his clothes, this time, he circled around his desk for more room.

"_Kálesekaréft!"_ he encanted.

A beautiful gilt-framed mirror appeared with a puff of blue smoke. He saw several students watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he could hear a little muted laughter. The professor smirked. It was only an illusion, and Potter had apparently forgotten to suppress his reaction, this time around.

"Oh dear," he sighed aloud after a short self-examination. "This won't do at all."

He turned in a slow circle and snorted at his swaying tail. He briefly wondered where such a ridiculous idea had come from as he took several slow steps back. Lockhart blinked and frowned, taking a few experimental steps forward. _Music_ accompanied his footsteps. Jazzy, bass-y, saxophone and finger-click-ridden theme music heralded his movement no matter how slowly he walked and only stopped if _he_ stopped.

"Ha-ha!" he grinned, wagging a brow at the snickering students before him. "My final ambition's realised. I have theme music."

The students outright laughed at that, with him, he noted smugly, more than at him.

"Before I get rid of this, would anyone mind telling me what exactly I'm supposed to be?" he asked good-humouredly. "I'm very curious."

Hesitantly, a girl at the back of the room whose name he couldn't recall raised her hand, and he quickly gestured at her to speak.

"You're the Pink Panther, Professor," she giggled. "It's a muggle cartoon."

"Ahhh," he nodded, fixing his expression to one of recognition. "I thought I recognised the melody. Well, why don't we have an impromptu lesson, since we've been afforded the opportunity?"

Several heads perked up at that, and his grin stretched wider.

"Class, what you see here is an illusion. My clothes feel as they did before, and I can't feel any of the apparent additions to my wardrobe," he informed them. "Now, you may not know this, but an illusionary spell like this, when appropriately applied, could save your life if you should ever find yourself in inhospitable territory."

He waved his wand with a flourish, and the boy who sat front and centre suddenly looked like a very elderly, feeble man wearing a yellow raincoat. His students made appreciative sounds as another flick of his wrist restored the boy to his usual appearance.

"While simple glamours disguise features, full-on illusion spells trick the mind into seeing something that isn't there. They take a bit of power and practice to apply, but they're harder to see through. Keep in mind if you ever use it that a touch would still reveal the fallacy," he explained, preening in the attentive gazes of his students while he paced back and forth in front of their desks to the music Potter had supplied. "As you noticed, there's no incantation. Much like freeform transfiguration, this charm's all about your intent and focus. For an in-depth explanation, and tips on how to perfect this technique for yourselves, you're welcome to read ahead to chapter fifteen of _Voyages with Vampires_, in which I fooled a coven into thinking I was one of their own with various masking and disguise spells."

With an elegant flourish, he willed the illusion to fall and smiled when his hands, shoes, and robes returned to view. He grinned, and several students clapped.

"Now, for the music. Anyone care to identify some possibilities?"

He frowned when no one offered up an answer.

"Nobody? Oh, come, now. You are N.E.W.T. students!"

One of the red-haired Gryffindor boys raised a hand. Lockhart nodded his acknowledgement.

"Sir, it's back."

"Er- What's back, my boy?" the professor frowned.

"The illusion, Professor."

_Bugger__,_ he thought.

"Not to worry, Wesley-"

"It's _Weasley,_ sir," a girl with mahogany ringlets interrupted.

_Weasley_ flushed, but looked pleased. Lockhart grit his teeth and doffed his hat.

"Of course, my dear," he allowed. "Who would like to demonstrate a summoning charm for me?"

The same Ravenclaw stood with a frown.

"Sir?"

He smiled indulgently and gestured to himself.

"If the spell was not applied to my person, why might it reassert itself?"

"Oh," she said in recognition. "It's an enchantment on an object that's spelled to affect whatever it touches, and your counter-spell only worked for as long as it took for its runes to recharge."

"Exactly. Would you be so kind as to summon it to you?"

However, no matter what combination of '_Accio_ enchanted prank object' the girl tried, nothing responded to her spell.

"Er-" he forced a laugh. "Whatever it is _is_ stubborn, isn't it? You lot go ahead and finish your assignments. I'm going to nip back to my rooms for a quick wardrobe change."

He quickly took the stairs back up to his apartments and stripped out of his clothes. An hour, three showers (to wash away any possible potions), four outfits later and after six attempts at overriding the illusion with one of his own, the professor gave up and made his way down to Healer Pomfrey's lair. He very much wished there were fewer muggle-born students in the school. Apparently, the kar-toon's subject added to the enjoyment of his predicament for anyone he passed. The sheltering, soundproofed doors barring the general population from the convalescing provided some relief to the giggles and jeers following his jaunty footsteps.

Madam Pomfrey; however looked not amused by the professor's appearance in her infirmary. The woman's nostrils flared, her lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed as she brusquely tugged a privacy curtain around her only patient in residence.

"Poppy," Lockhart greeted genially "Good afternoon."

The matron's sharp gaze swept him from head-to-toe, and a short jab of her wand produced a series of ghostly numbers and letters he couldn't decipher despite their proximity to his face.

"Professor," she gritted through clenched teeth. "From my diagnostics, there's nothing wrong with you, so why, pray tell, are you here?"

Scarlet sparks shot from her wand, and Lockhart wisely got straight to the point.

"I've done everything in my power to undo this illusion or override it," he rushed, performing the counter-spell to demonstrate.

The healer's brow quirked at his momentary success before the illusion resumed and he once again resembled an overgrown child in footie pyjamas.

"And before you ask, I've spent an hour bathing and changing to determine if it was something on my person," he sighed. "Unfortunately, I experienced not a dot of success."

"Indeed?" she muttered. "Well, onto a bed with you, then. Lie still as you can while I scan you."

The defence professor complied and settled in while the witch cast several multicoloured investigative charms and spells over his prone body. He counted her ninth attempt before she finally stood straight and slid her wand back into the pocket of her crisp white apron. Lockhart sat up and swung his pink fuzz-covered legs over the side of the bed.

"It's very cleverly executed, I'll tell you that," she shrugged with a small smile.

The man's usual grin twisted and twitched a little.

"It would have to be in order to resist my spellwork," he agreed ruefully. "Did you locate the issue?"

"I think so," she said lightly. "Did you eat corn at lunch, Professor?"

"Er-" he frowned and blinked. "Why, yes. Yes, I did."

"Well that's the perpetrator," she explained, resting her hands on her hips. "I'm afraid you'll just have to wait it out. The indigestible parts of the corn kernels you ingested are layered anti-detection and summoning enchantments, along with a whole host of local wards to prevent interference with the illusion. It's possible to drain them, of course, as you could any illusion; however, the kernels are still still inside you. You can't stop your own magic from recharging the spells because of their proximity."

"So there's nothing you can do?" he managed after processing for a moment.

She smiled and withdrew her wand. Her dextrous fingers spun it like a baton.

"I never said that," the healer countered almost sweetly. "I'm happy to provide you with a laxative to speed things up a tic, if you'd prefer."

The gleam in her eye made him shudder at the thought of the assuredly degrading and violent prospect.

"Er-" he laughed nervously. "That's quite all right, Poppy. I'll just return to my quarters, then, shall I? May I use your floo?

Pomfrey's brow twitched before her features affected a sympathetic expression.

"Afraid not, Professor. Official transit and emergencies only. You understand."

Lockhart grimaced, slid off the bed's edge, and tugged down his temporarily invisible waistcoat out of habit.

"Of course," he managed on the way to the door.

Outside, a small crowd had gathered to confirm what the rumours had told them. The professor did his utmost to stand straight and walk as if he didn't have odd theme music and a swaying pink tail following him around.

Although he polished up on and performed revealing and protection spells on all his food and drink thereafter, Potter (for he knew the boy was responsible by his mild smile in class) still managed to make a spectacle of him on a near daily basis. Sometimes, he could reverse the damage and return to his business. More often, what should have worked triggered a second spell effect more humiliating than the last.

The first time he experienced the unwelcome phenomenon, he ended up dancing on the head table miming and singing 'I'm a Little Teapot' a the top of his voice, which effectively prevented him from attempting any sort of countermeasure. The headmaster eventually stopped chuckling long enough to immobilise and levitate him, and Lockhart was put to rights in short order. In comparison, growing a donkey's ears, which happened the following morning, hadn't been so bad.

He gave an impatient huff.

Gilderoy had already spent more time studying in his short time as a professor than he ever remembered doing as a student. On the other hand, the challenge had given him several opportunities to show his humble acceptance of the ceaseless harassment. In addition, his new skills at item detection, personal warding, and runic-based protection provided excellent material for his upper-level classes, in which he'd heard whispers about the lack of practical lessons. Thankfully, his research had also yielded what he hoped would be his salvation from the onslaught. He smirked to himself and turned to page of the large how-to manual.


	10. To want the Stars

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Thanks for your comments, faves, and follows thus far. I love you all.

* * *

Chapter Ten: To want the Stars

* * *

**12 October 2013 – Very Late**

Harry frowned at the door barring passage through the pointed stone arch guarding Lockhart's office, rubbed a finger across its curved bronze handle, and stuck the digit in his mouth.

"Mate, do you normally go around tasting non-food things?" whispered Fred from a crouch on his left.

"'Cause that's not normal," George concluded on Harry's right.

The wizard in question rolled his eyes as he sorted out the flavour in his mouth.

"He's wised up on us," he finally explained. "Tastes of a very strong blood ward. Just takes a prick of the finger and a runic circle: simple, crude, and effective. We _could_ break it, but there'd be no way to reset it."

The twins exchanged devious looks, and Harry got the impression they were conducting a conversation in micro-expressions.

"Leave it to us," they chorused with matching smirks. "We'll set up the next round of fun for you later. Trade secrets, you know?"

Harry looked between them and sighed.

"Follow the Doctors rules," he reminded them seriously. "He knows _everything_. More than Dumbledore, even."

"Yeah," George muttered ruefully. "We're intimately acquainted with his evil powers."

The Slytherin laughed and pressed a matchbox into the boy's palm.

"Everything you need's in there. Three or four _engorgio_s should put them at the right size."

Fred saluted while George tucked the box into his breast pocket, and Harry waved at them both before quietly creeping around the corner. Once out of their line of sight, he donned his cloak again and started back toward his common room.

As always, he felt a special sort of freedom walking the castle by night with his birthfather's cloak of invisibility hiding him even from the moonbeams. The portraits mostly slept, but the few containing nocturnal creatures buzzed with movement and sound. Oil-on-canvas owls swooped through frames. Big cats prowls their grasslands and jungles, or stared forlornly out from behind the bars of their cages. Surrounded by such enchantment and the music played by flapping wings and gentle swaying foliage, he almost missed the presence of another midnight wanderer.

He caught a reflection of silver light bouncing unnaturally over the floor. The flash made him pause on his way past the great hall, but his momentary jolt of nerves at possible discovery quickly faded into curiosity when he heard no footsteps or words. He reinforced the muffling charm on his shoes and clothes before stealing into the empty hall. Devoid as it was of students, staff, owls and food, and with the glory of space's vast endlessness sprawled across the ceiling overhead – more brilliant and enticing than any glancing view from a window – the hall seemed larger than ever. The odd reflection flashed again against the flagstones, drawing his gaze from the billions of stars twinkling silently through the enchantment, and he followed it with his eye as it danced across the floor.

"Hello."

The boy jumped a foot into the air and spun with his wand raised beneath the cloak. A girl with wide, silvery blue eyes and long, wispy blonde hair sat atop the mantel above an empty fireplace set into the east-side wall. She stared through his exact spot, and the intensity of her gaze made him believe, for a moment, she could actually see _him_ through the cloak. Several seconds passed in which she kept on staring, unblinking, while she turned a highly polished silver pendant in her fingers. Harry barely breathed as he soundlessly cast his most powerful notice-me-not, and though her gaze blurred for a moment, she only tilted her head and smiled dreamily. Her bare feet swung back and forth, back and forth, keeping time as effectively as a metronome.

"It's all right if you'd rather not talk," she mildly offered when it became apparent her invisible company would not speak first. "No one ever talks to me, anyway."

Her expression never changed, and her fingers never stalled their rhythmic tumbling of the ovular pendant.

"Why doesn't anyone ever talk to you?" he whispered after he'd watched it weave over and under her ring finger five times.

He reached out and winced as the taste of her magic registered to his senses. Her aura smelled of salt and lilies mingled with the bitter bite of liquorish. Her magic hummed of dejection and loneliness. Still, her face remained placid, showing only pleasant surprise at his address.

"I make people uncomfortable," she said just as blandly as before. "I'm not afraid to be myself, even if others don't like what they perceive me to be. I don't mind if they think I'm odd, either."

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, glanced at the door, and swept off his cloak. The girl's smile stretched impossibly wide to create dimples in her cheeks.

"I thought you were a wizard," she told him. "I wasn't sure, though. That's a magnificent cloak you have."

"One of a kind," he agreed before taking a seat on the long Slytherin table facing her mantle. Sitting with his feet on the bench, they were almost at eye level.

"What's your name?"

"Luna," she hummed. "Luna Lovegood."

The second-year made a sound of recognition after a moment's recollection.

"Are you the one who fell in the lake?"

Luna shrugged.

"I was trying to listen for merpeople. I heard Hogwarts has a large settlement, but I leaned too far in," she elaborated. "Mr Cuddlepus caught me, though."

She made a wiggly motion with her arm that he took as an imitation of her rescuer.

"Mr _Cuddle-pus_?" Harry echoed. "You named the giant squid?"

"He's very sweet," she assured him. "And actually, I think he's a Kraken. He looks more like a cuttlefish through the mantle."

Harry breathed a laugh.

"What's your name?"

She watched him with bland expectation.

He blinked and hesitated, examining her face to tell whether she was joking, but found no evidence of humour. Sincere curiosity shone clearly in her luminescent blue eyes.

"I-" he frowned contemplatively. "Don't you know, already?"

He phrased it poorly and thought anyone overhearing his conversation might mistake his befuddlement for ego.

"I know what everyone calls you," she clarified, her pale brows climbing her forehead. "But what is _your_ name?"

Harry felt a flood of warmth in his chest for the unusual Ravenclaw, and he realised with an odd pang that she was the first person in over a year to ask him that. Hermione had been the last.

"Harry Tyler," he answered with a soft sort of pride. "Glad to make your acquaintance, Luna."

Her answering smile returned the dimples to her cheeks.

"You've been very kind to me, Harry Tyler," she said. "Thank you."

"So," Harry grinned. "What're you doing in here?"

She stared up at the enchanted ceiling. With no other sources of light around them, the stars caught and reflected brightly in the girl's silvery-blue eyes. Harry felt her magic swell and ebb again.

"It's too cold to stargaze on the Astronomy tower," she finally sighed. "This is a close second, though. I wanted to look at the universe and feel small."

"I know what you mean," the Slytherin whispered, his eyes cast upward. "I'm going, someday – To space, I mean. I want to discover stars and planets. There's so much out there we haven't found, yet."

"I'd heard the non-magicals went to the moon," Luna mused. "So perhaps you will."

He thought it lovely he didn't have to explain himself despite her apparent heritage. After over a month working on the dirigible and constantly arguing non-magical ingenuity, he'd become used to justifying every little thing he said in relation to science. Harry smiled wistfully. Movement made him glance down, again, to where Luna had resumed swinging her feet back and forth. He frowned at the flash of ankle, and his brow furrowed while his brain caught up with his eyes. Her robe hung awkwardly off her slim frame, and her hands protruded from voluminous sleeves that bunched bulkily at the crook of her arm.

"But why did you choose tonight, of all nights?" he gently pressed.

The pink toes twitched and her legs stopped swinging.

"I went to meet with Ginny Weasley," Luna said a little sadly. "She's been my friend since we were little. I even stayed with her for a while after my mother died a couple years ago."

She turned the pendant in her hands, and her placid face pinched with concern.

"Ginny's been really withdrawn, and she stopped coming to study with me, so I was worried about her. Her brother Percy says she's just homesick, but he tends to assume things without actually asking people," she continued. "I went to see Lady Aglaia, that's the name of the portrait who guards Gryffindor's entrance, and I told everyone I saw go in to ask Ginny to come out, but she never did. I waited for hours and hours, but then Mrs Norris came around and I had to run."

Harry frowned at the matter-of-fact explanation.

"But if you running from Filch, why didn't you leave the stars to another night?" he asked.

"Oh," she sighed. "The knocker wouldn't let me in. He said the door had been locked by a prefect, and he couldn't open it again without permission even though I answered the riddle correctly. I figured I'd just wait for a while and try again, so I went for a soak in the roman baths on the fourth floor. My things were gone when I came out, and it'd been such a horrible day, already, I needed to see something beautiful."

The boy tasted salt again as the girl's shoulders slumped. She sat unnaturally still.

"I suspect nargles are responsible," she mumbled. "They can be very mischievous, and they're not really smart enough to understand the concept of personal property and inconvenience."

"You must be freezing," Harry said sympathetically.

He sent a warming charm at her, and the girl sighed in appreciation. He didn't know what 'nargles' were, but he had a fair idea she didn't really believe they were to blame for her troubles that evening.

"Thank you, Harry," she smiled. "Borrowed overrobes never really cut the chill."

"Come on." He uncrossed his legs, stood to stretch his arms overhead, and yawned. "Let's get you back to your dorm."

He held out his hand, and the girl stared at it for a long moment before letting the Slytherin half-lift, half-levitate her down from the mantle.

Harry escorted Luna up twelve flights of stairs and one long, spiralling tower beneath his invisibility cloak. They saw no prefects still patrolling, nor did they note any professors. The ghosts floated through the halls, instead, but no one detected their presence on the way. Harry, who considered himself fairly fit (what with resumed Quidditch practice, continued conditioning, and duelling his housemates), found himself feeling a bit out of breath as they crested the last landing leading away from the spiralling staircase. Luna stopped before an arched door adorned with nothing but a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. Its wings spread as if it would take flight at their approach, and the ring held in its talons rattled. The head, which had previously tucked beneath one of its wings, swivelled to stare at them as Harry folded up the cloak and stowed it in his pocket.

"We can poison without drink nor food, and we can harm without a weapon. We trade in truth, but also lies, and cannot be judged just by our size. What are we?"

"Words," Luna immediately answered.

"You are correct, but you may not enter," the eagle grumbled. "I cannot open without unlocking."

Harry gave his new friend's hand a small squeeze and stepped forward.

"Would you mind if I try?"

The eagle tilted its head like Hedwig sometimes did, but nodded after a moment's examination. The boy dropped Luna's fingers to press his ear to the door. He sniffed it after listening for a moment, and spread his palms on either side of the eagle, who cackled a laugh.

"That tickles!" it complained.

"Sorry," Harry smiled.

Hogwarts' magic hummed around them as it always did, but the door, just like the Slytherin common room's, seemed interwoven with something extra. In his mind, he saw the structure of the thrumming power as cogs turning behind the wood to line up the tumblers of a complex lock. He found the piece he wanted, twisted, and grinned as the door swung open under his hands. The first-year clapped her hands. Feeling immensely satisfied with his progress, Harry went with it and bowed like a proper showman, still holding open the door for her.

She skipped into her common room with the robe's hem trailing behind her like a train. The boy had almost closed the door when he felt to slim arms wrap around his middle and squeeze him with all their might.

"Thank you. Would you mind if I wanted to be your friend?" she asked in her light, airy way.

He twisted in her vicelike grip and smiled.

"'Course I wouldn't. We're friends, already," the Slytherin assured her. "You're nice and fun to be around."

"Goodnight!" she let him go and crossed the round common room to disappear inside an archway nestled behind a white marble statue.

Harry hesitated in the threshold, half in and half out of the dormitory, thinking about the whimsical first-year and her stolen clothes and shoes. He hadn't asked if the nargles had taken her wand, too, and wondered if she'd be all right in class in a few hours. He let the door close behind him with a soft snap.

The Ravenclaw common area lay beneath a high, domed ceiling of deep blue strewn with gold-leaf stars. An intricate model of the solar system wrought from shining bronze hung from the dome's apex. A glass sphere of what appeared to be swirling, bright yellow flames burned at its centre to light the room. The statue across from the entrance, an austere woman draped with flowing robes and crowned with a tiara, slowly turned her head in a way that made him shiver.

It reminded him too much of the Doctor's stories.

He slipped on the invisibility cloak and strode to the archway behind her. The corridor in front of him forked to the boys' and girls' sides, if he were to guess. But rather than exploring, like some might, he drew his wand, breathed deep, and flicked up with a whispered _Accio!_

He heard a few doors open down either corridor, but soon enough the items he'd called flew toward him. He directed Luna Lovegood's lost and stolen things into a pile at the centre of the circular table below the chandelier. His gut twisted. Clothes, jewellery, photographs, books, shoes, drawings, bits and bobs neatly stacked themselves in a pile a foot high and two feet across to form a pyramidal monument to the unknown perpetrators' callousness. Harry wasn't a particularly angry person, but he would be the first to admit he had a breaking point. The last time he'd felt this overwhelmingly furious had been in the presence of a dark lord.

It burned in his belly and tasted bitter on the back of his tongue.

Never one to stew when he could take action instead, Harry racked his brain for the nastiest spells he and Hermione had found. After several minutes of silent referencing of his internal catalogue – he didn't want to create lasting harm, after all – His face split into a grin and his wand snapped to attention. He traced the archway with the glowing tip, carefully burning a constant stream of minute runes into the stone which the castle's magic easily powered as soon as the he closed and charged the inscription. The difficult work complete, Harry returned to the common room and its pile of loot. He transfigured four thumbtacks, which he positioned at each corner of the pyramid, and aimed his scanner at them. It hummed and whirred until a brief ripple indicated the barrier's activation. Finally, he pulled a sticky note from the pad he kept in his pocket, enlarged one sheet, and used the same scorching spell he'd employed with the dormitory entrance to burn a message onto the paper.

_Be better humans, or reap your just desserts. We're watching._

He smirked and cast a look over his shoulder at Ravenclaw's statue, whose face watched him, devoid of emotion. A moment later, the boy disappeared beneath his cloak and made his exit.

* * *

The next morning, a good portion of Ravenclaw's number did not come to breakfast until it had nearly concluded, but when it did, the boisterous hall fell silent. Flitwick's usually jovial face had twisted in a glare of fury to match his ferocious ancestry. Harry, who sat between Draco and Daphne as usual, stilled with his toast halfway to his mouth. The professor and head-of-house marched with several students, mostly second through fifth-years of both genders, whose foreheads sported the ugliest, most inflamed spots most had ever seen. Hermione's head twitched as if to eye her Slytherin friend, but she managed to control the impulse and avoid implicating him. Whispers swept the hall as people made out the words stamped in acne on every one of their foreheads.

_BULLY_

_THIEF_

_COWARD_

_LIAR_

The person who caused the labelling quickly dismissed the brief feeling of regret niggling in his gut at the sight of red, tear-swollen eyes as he counted the guilty. Of Ravenclaw's 193 students, forty-one followed Flitwick into the room with their heads hung. The diminutive professor marched up to the short steps to the podium, conjured a stool, and stared around at the unnaturally quiet students before him.

"It has come to my attention that a number of students have caused unprovoked harm on others by wand, word, deed, or by their inaction. I am ashamed to find so many such persons in the house supposedly intended for the wise," he snarled. "I am appalled to learn over half of my former prefects belong to that statistic. Therefore-"

He glared at his cowering students.

"I take five points for every instance of deliberate cruelty committed by members of my house since September 1st."

The sapphire-filled hourglass behind the head table abruptly emptied. It had, apparently, gone into the negatives, because the upper-chamber lay vacant, too.

"I also revoke all privileges for every person involved in the victimisation of their classmates and dismiss all team and club members in their number. I have never, in all my years, felt so ashamed," he continued. "I do not add weekend detentions for the remainder of the year only because of the brands you see. That said, the person who caused this sorry revelation has also broken school rules in their efforts to right egregious wrongs. Therefore, he or she will report to my office by noon today, or his or her punishment will equal that of the truly guilty. That person will receive a week's detention for being out-of-bounds and for purposefully cursing other students."

The short remainder of breakfast continued in whispers, which stretched well into their first, second, and third hours. Harry's close friends, who all knew well his repertoire of spells from their conjoined research and practice, threw him curious looks throughout it all, but he didn't offer any elaboration. When their charms lesson – directed by a decidedly snappish charms professor – concluded at 11:45, they weren't surprised to see him remain in his seat although his bag lay on his desk, packed neatly and ready to go.

"Mr Potter," the professor sighed as Hermione and Susan finally left. "May I help you with something?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said solemnly. "It was me. Luna didn't have anything to do with it, if you wondered."

The part-goblin chuckled, and a little of his normal levity crept back onto his face in the twinkle of his eye. He hopped nimbly down from his stack of books to stand by his student's desk. The young Slytherin met his eye with neither shame nor pride, only conviction.

"I never considered it," Flitwick assured him. "May I ask what inspired you to take such drastic measures?"

"I was doing some exploring-"

The charms master smirked, and Harry had the distinct impression Flitwick knew _exactly_ what he meant by that.

"-And I noticed her in here by herself. She was really sad so I stayed and talked to her. Finally got around to asking why she was barefoot, and well- After I escorted her back to the dorms, I might have investigated, and erm-"

"I think most would describe your actions as excessive; however," the professor drawled. "In consideration of how many were involved, I personally believe your brand of retribution rather deserved."

"I've got a soft spot for eccentrics," Harry smiled ruefully. "I thought a little itching, soreness and embarrassment was worth the trouble if I got caught. What gave me away, anyhow?"

Flitwick chuckled and began preparing for his next lesson, clearing slates and rearranging desks for a practical lesson. His pupil assisted him without being asked, casting with and without incantations with more efficiency than most twelve-year-olds could ever hope to aspire toward.

"The runes, dear boy," the professor chuckled. "Just because I haven't been assisting Gilderoy doesn't mean I wasn't curious about some of the more remarkable work done for the castle's entertainment."

"It's mostly Hermione's genius, really," the Slytherin demurred. "She inspires me to new levels of inventiveness."

"I see. Ten points to Hufflepuff and Slytherin, each then. And another ten to the Weasley twins, for their part in things, as well."

Harry appraised the clever half-goblin, whose shrewd, whiskered face crinkled with barely withheld laughter.

"You're good," he admired.

The professor shrugged.

"I've got a soft spot for merry marauders."

* * *

A/N: One of you lovely folk commented on Rose's handling of her hate mail. She had the owls drop the envelopes over the Atlantic somewhere, into the ocean where they can't hurt anything. The sonic sorted the biodegradable ones and howlers into that group. The environmentally harmful (and coincidentally, more heinous) ones returned to sender. The healers of Saint Mungos were not pleased at the amount of "accidental" spell and potion damage they had to reverse following Rita's article.


	11. There is Sweet Music Here

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Thanks for your comments, faves, and follows thus far. I love you all.

* * *

Chapter Eleven – There is Sweet Music Here

* * *

By the time Harry and his friends met again to work on their dirigible, the entire school knew who held responsibility for the Ravenclaws' collective shame. Luna Lovegood's sudden inclusion in his study group and building crew effectively cemented the message for everyone. Speculation continued, however, as to whom Harry referred with the 'we' in his warning note. Meanwhile, the Doctor and Rose continued their lessons to wide acclaim, and as excitement grew for the flying machine, Rose began weekend seminars for the increasingly curious wizard-raised population. The original two dozen-some regular attendees grew to number over a hundred for her lectures on non-magical culture and science. When she lacked practical demonstrations, they watched in awe of educating and entertaining films projected against a bed sheet (after the television screen proved too small for everyone to clearly see) and marvelled at the ingenuity of those they had once thought inferior. Wizless-raised upper-years throughout the castle suddenly had some proof to the tales many of their friends and classmates previously dismissed. Murmurs spread with increasing excitement (for the wizless raised or newly indoctrinated) and anxiety or anger (for those who feared change or refused to believe). As tensions rose ever higher throughout the castle, most hinged their hopes of vindication on the second-years' pet project.

The dirigible's gasbag slowly came together in heat-sealed panels of nylon-lined vinyl under Hermione and Luna's combined efforts. The Ravenclaw, as it turned out, possessed attention to detail to rival the Hufflepuff, and when they sealed the last seam and reinforced the connection loops, Luna further leant her talents to their cause by leading the technically unskilled but invested masses in painting the envelope by hand. She divided each side of the dirigible's gasbag vertically among the four houses. Dean Thomas painted Gryffindor's quarter with a roaring lion against a scarlet background awash with a pale gold floral motif. Luna similarly painted hers with blue, but instead of floral scrollwork, she mapped bronze constellations across the azure field. Harry, who felt he lacked in the art area, left the Slytherin quarter to Tracy and Daphne since the girls had taken art lessons from an early age. The girls kept with the theme and carefully rendered an intricate silver serpent whose coils curled and crossed the majority of their space. Susan Bones and Ernie MacMillan took over for their side once their neighbour's had dried and completed the set with their badger, which posed regally against a lighter yellow-on-richer-yellow pattern of interweaving vines and leaves. Finally, only the engine's construction remained to complete the dirigible's components.

Harry's detentions, too, wound their way toward conclusion. Since he readily owned up to his actions, Flitwick assigned tedious work to fill Harry's evenings on any night he wasn't working on the dirigible, attending Quidditch practice, or studying. As much as the boy appreciated the professor's sense of justice, he dearly missed freetime. The charms master further cemented his ranking in Harry's regard with his final assignment.

"Mr Potter," he smiled upon the Slytherin's entry to his office. "Are you excited to finally have your Sundays and evenings to yourself again?"

"Yes, Sir," the boy freely admitted. "As much as I've enjoyed my time with you, I kind of miss flying with my sister."

"Ah," Flitwick hummed. "Did Miss Jenny Renette make her displeasure known to you, then?"

Harry grimaced in remembrance of the little girl's anger and disappointment. When she was younger, she had been more likely to throw a tantrum. As a first-former, she had graduated to sulky silence, which bothered her brother more than the crying. He could usually fix the crying.

"I'm sure she'll forgive you," the professor said sympathetically. "Anyhow, I thought I'd give you a learning opportunity for your final detention, if you're amenable. Otherwise, I'm afraid I've run out of chores, so you'd be assisting your head-of-house with cleaning."

The diminutive man waggled his wispy white eyebrows at him, and Harry shuddered. Based on his experiences with potions ingredients, he wanted nothing to do with any of the tasks his head-of-house might assign. He and the Doctor were both convinced the scouring charm had been invented solely for the purpose of cleansing cauldrons of salamander spleens and nappies of their usual contents.

"What sort of opportunity?" he said quickly.

On cue, the Gryffindor ghost, a gentleman in an overlarge neck ruff and voluminous pantaloons floated through the floor.

"Is this he, Filius?" he queried with an unsure look at the second-year.

The boy grinned broadly. He _adored_ ghosts. Their existence remained an utter mystery to Torchwood, the Doctor, and him, so they all revelled in the prospect of someday unlocking how ghosts came into being. Harry felt his already high opinion of the charms master swell exponentially.

"Indeed it is, Sir Nicholas," Flitwick nodded. "May I present Mr Harry Potter? Mr Potter, this is Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."

The ghost bowed at the waist with a courtly flourish, and Harry did a respectable approximation of the gesture.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sir Nicholas," he greeted.

"Oh! The pleasure's all mine, Mr Potter, all mine, indeed," Nicholas assured him. "Filius implied you might be willing to help me with a little get-together we're having tomorrow evening rather than attend the feast."

Harry glanced at his professor, and finding encouragement, bowed again.

"Absolutely!" he agreed. "I honestly find the whole thing a little much, you know?"

Sir Nicholas nodded solemnly.

"My condolences on your loss, Mr Potter. I remember them both very well, and they were very much favourites within my house."

The boy nodded his acceptance of the ghost's words and made his own suggestion.

"Perhaps you could tell me about them if you have time at your party, Sir."

"Excellent," Flitwick clapped. "I'm sure it'll be quite illuminating for you, Mr Potter. Just so you do not go without dinner, though, I highly recommend eating before you attend at… Did you say it was seven, Sir Nicholas?"

"I did, indeed. We'll be in the East Wing on the second floor. There's a whole disused ballroom languishing there just perfect for something like this. To think," he sighed almost wistfully. "It's been five-hundred years since my death."

The young Slytherin resisted the urge to smile at the ghost's expression, but Sir Nicholas didn't seem offended by the boy's amusement.

"Anyhow, thank you for coming, Mr Potter. Your presence should cinch things for me with the Headless Hunt."

"Er-" Harry frowned. "What?"

The ghost waved a silvery hand and rolled his eyes.

"You'll see, dear boy. See you at seven."

* * *

**31 October 2013**

Hallowe'en dawned cool and dreary. Harry woke to the sound of muffled thunder rumbling, strangely warped, against the long, thin panes of glass framing either side of his bed. With the storm outside, the cool green light that usually filtered in from the lake failed to illuminate his bedroom and left it a mass of shadows despite the ever-burning candles mounted in brackets by the bed and over his small writing desk.

Kilat hissed in frustration when her human sat up, taking his warmth with him.

"_Go back to sleep_," he yawned with a stretch. "_I know you're mostly nocturnal._"

Rather than giving a proper answer, the little serpent slid into the recess left behind in the pillow. The boy grinned and obligingly pulled the blanket up and over her, directing his will into a warming charm to incubate his companion further.

She definitely did not approve of the rapidly declining temperatures of the castle, even with her magically enhanced ability to retain warmth better than the average reptile.

When Harry finally left the second year boys' lounge to ascend the stairs from the boys' wing, he found the castle had been transformed overnight to the sort of environment non-magical kids would imagine of a castle overrun by witches and wizards. Live bats fluttered over the sumptuous furnishing of Slytherin common room, and jack-o-lanterns floated in lieu of the usual naked candles and hanging lanterns. The students seemed to have been overcome by a sort of excitement Harry thought to be quite different from that of non-magical children at the holiday. And though the previous Hallowe'en had been a melancholic sort of day – what with hiding on a balcony and later fighting a troll – the steady happiness he'd enjoyed since his parents' introduction to the castle allowed him to pick up on the things he had previously missed in the castle's hum. He could not put his finger on the feeling that permeated the air once he dismissed the whispers he'd become accustomed to, but, to his surprise, the first class of the day shed some light on his peers' excitement.

Unlike many of his classmates, he had been intrigued and excited by the prospect of learning more about Wizarding tradition and culture under the enthusiastic tutelage of Professor Lumsden. He rather reminded Harry of the Doctor's exuberant lessons on history, life, and the universe, as he knew it.

He made his way to the front of the classroom with Draco and Daphne, where they settled in with Hermione and Neville. The professor entered just after the nine o' clock bells, whereupon the kilted man strode to the front of the room and waved his wand at the chalkboard.

The chalk leapt up and began sweeping across the surface in a graceful dash. Runes, Latin, and English script scrawled across the top of the board, followed by the depiction of several magical creatures and a huge, graceful tree.

"Samhain!" he boomed. "The predecessor of Hallowe'en and one of our peoples' most important holidays!"

Harry sat forward in his seat, though he noticed many of the wizard-raised kids seemed bored or annoyed.

"Our folk have celebrated Samhain in some shape or form since before Merlin's time," he continued while his students watched him pace before the board. "And although many of our traditions have been altered through the ages, many of our current customs and laws stem from the old ways of Samhain."

The huge man paused in his trek before the class and looked around at them all with a pensive look on his heavily bearded face.

"So who can tell me one of these traditions?" he prompted. "Each correct answer will receive a point."

No one raised a hand, not even Hermione, who developed a look of supreme frustration. Harry thought that it might have been the first time she _hadn't_ had an answer in all her years of formal schooling.

Their chairs and desks creaked a little as the silence stretched on, and finally the professor gave a mighty huff and crossed his great, beefy arms over his barrel chest.

"Come on now," he frowned. "Surely someone has an answer. Even a guess?"

To everyone's surprise, Draco Malfoy met the professor's gaze. The boy wasn't considered unintelligent by any means, but by virtue of being a Slytherin sitting in a non-Slytherin professor's class, it was considered impolitic of him to volunteer information unless called upon.

"The first that comes to mind, Sir," he began, "Is the final meeting of the Wizengamot at the end of an electoral year."

Everyone looked at him with varying expressions of disbelief and confusion. Harry simply started taking notes.

"Go on," Professor Lumsden encouraged. "How's this relevant to Samhain?"

"Well," Draco continued, "Before the Christian introduction of All Saint's, most of Britain, Ireland, and Scotland believed the thirty-first of October to be the official beginning of the portion of the year in which Dark forced gained inordinate power. It's still customary to wrap up any ongoing business before tonight at sunset in order to give those endeavours the best chances at a positive outcome. Also, the Wizengamot traditionally waits to decide the most important legislation and pending judgments until today, and often decrees those decisions go into effect at sundown."

The big Scotsman clapped his hands once and grinned at them all.

"Excellent!" he crowed. "Aye, that's a good'un. Anyone else?"

"Apples," said a girl at the back of the room.

Everyone turned in their seats to look at Hannah Abbot, who shrank a little behind her desk as her cheeks flamed.

"My mum and would give apples to all the kids who come mumming at our house. Gran says they do it because of Samhain and Allantide."

"Aye, lass. Why apples, though?"

Hannah chewed her lower lip and squirmed a little, before providing a tentative answer.

"She said it's just tradition. Good luck, and all that."

Professor Lumsden gave the strawberry blonde a slightly disappointed, but not unkind, look and turned back to the rest of the class.

"Well?" he sighed. "Anything else?"

Harry sat up a little straighter, his interest growing as his classmates' answers struck closer and closer to some of the things he had studied in one of his primary school classes concerning world religions and the history of the British Isles.

"…Exactly!" the Professor praised someone.

Harry didn't know who.

"So you see, even our procedures in potion-making, enchanting and warding have quite a lot to do with the traditions of our ancestors, who unwittingly created the modern holiday we all love and celebrate. But can anyone explain what Hallowe'en really means to our world? Why not only we, but also our Muggle countrymen, still honour and keep the day?"

Lumsden started calling on students again, until finally Harry's head kicked into gear, weaving together some of his dad's lessons that week, some of the ones in primary school, and a few of the history books he'd read in order to tune out Binns' droning last year.

"Wait a moment," he said, interrupting Ernie Macmillan, who had just started talking about All Saint's Day, Christianity and their influence on Britain.

Ernie scowled, but Lumsden seemed pleased at the interjection.

"Mr. Potter-Smith?"

Harry smiled appreciatively. Lumsden was one of two professors who habitually used what everyone thought to be his full name. It still wasn't what he preferred, really, but it was along the same vein as far as intentions went.

"Sorry Professor, Ernie, but I just wanted to clarify – You see, I've always thought of Wizarding U.K. as rather – Well, not faithless really, but highly secular in almost every aspect of life save around the holidays, but if I'm understanding the direction of your questioning–"

Harry paused at Lumsden's growing grin.

"Well," the boy laughed. "I definitely didn't expect that."

"What?" Hermione snapped beside him. "You're doing that thing again where you assume everyone's brain works like yours."

"Sorry," Harry laughed. "It's just, I think what the professor's getting at is the answer to what's been driving me and my dad crazy since we got here."

"Get to the point," Susan Bones sighed, prodding Harry in the back.

"It's about protecting the population, isn't it?" he said, turning back to Lumsden, who looked as if he'd swallowed a particularly delicious chocolate. "The non-magicals were killing each other over religion daily, and the witch hunts only got worse with the spread of Christianity and the suppression of local pagan and Druidic traditions. Oh, that's brilliant. That's really, really clever!"

Harry laughed out loud, and Draco subtly stepped on his foot. It was all he could do not to yelp and glare at his fellow Slytherin. Although, based on the expressions of some of the Slytherins he didn't know quite as well, it might have been a good thing Draco stopped him where he did. They looked rather frustrated with him.

"Very good, Master Potter," he grinned. "Seven points to Slytherin. So to those of you who haven't caught on quite yet, here's the whole of it:

"As Mr Potter-Smith alluded, time went on and our communities grew more and more unacceptable to the rest of the world. It became quite difficult to practice some of our most important magicks. As I have said before, our ancestors may not have known the properties of dragon's blood, or exactly how many applications there are to transfiguration, but they knew a good thing when they saw it.

"What started as a conglomeration of religious practices of several cultures around the end of October transmuted into the tradition of casting powerful magicks on or just before those days. We're human, after all, and how do we have magic at all? We all believe different ways. Some of us adopted the belief that the Almighty God – Yahweh, Allah, Elomin, whichever you prefer – bestowed it upon His people through grace or His Son, depending on the faith, and all wizards are descended or created through that continued blessing.

"Others held to the traditions of their Norse, European, and Mediterranean ancestors from across the seas, believing we are, in fact, a different breed entirely than Muggles: bred from the likes of ancient deities as Thor, Frey, Isis, Hecate, Odin, and Zeus! Not myths, but ancient wizards and witches.

"Then there are the Celts and others who keep by their old ways, Gods, Goddesses, Fae, and Faeriekind. In that tradition, Magic flows from the earth in wild, temperamental power that chooses its recipients at random.

"In any case, all these magic folk had certain holidays at the end of the harvesting season, and all of them had a tendency to gather to perform magic during those times in celebration of their respective beliefs, most of which had something to do with enhancing harvests, or calling for blessings through the harsh winter by laying protective wards or enchantments. As a result, the places they used year after year, century after century, developed the sort of heightened magical properties Hogwarts enjoys now.

"Despite the changes in belief since then, evidence still pointed to the enhancement of magicks in these places and during this season, and so, Wizardkind continued using them. However, with more non-believing Muggles out and about as time went on, we needed to protect ourselves from their potentially dangerous interference.

"After all, a ritual or complex spell interrupted can have devastating effects."

He paused to take a deep breath, and waved his wand at the board. The chalk began writing again, this time to depict what Harry supposed to be a magical field around the tree, under which stood several robed wizards clasped hands.

"It became apparent we needed a way to disguise our places of enchantment while also distracting the less open-minded populace. It wasn't until 1829 that we invented the notice-me-not charm, after all, and while witch-burnings eventually fell out of fashion, Muggle guns certainly held nasty surprises for many of our number well into the early eighteenth century. Not to mention, the people generally caught and tried for witchery tended to be children who could not yet control their powers, or Muggle political dissenters who didn't have the connections to avoid that fate."

He turned around and swept his wand at the board, where smaller depictions of children roaming a neighbourhood in fancy dress danced beneath the ritual scene above them. The professor stroked his short beard and eyed the classroom while the sound of scratching quills filled his brief pause.

"So _Hallowe'en_, in its current state…?" he prompted sharply.

Harry grinned and nudged Hermione in the side. As the professor's lecture continued, she had stopped gaping and began vibrating in her seat at the influx of new information and the connections her over-quick mind made with them.

The Scott nodded to her indulgently.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Is it…"

Professor Lumsden smiled encouragingly and Harry grinned at his friend's side.

"They cooperated," Hermione concluded with more confidence. "Rather than move from the places everyone had gotten used to, or changing their traditions, the Non-Magicals and Magicals who believed in those practices banded together to protect them. And the sheer fun of it made it a tradition the world over."

"Seven points to Hufflepuff," their teacher crowed. "Very good, everyone. To this day, there has never been a more poignant example of Muggle and Magical cooperation. And, although many of you probably aren't aware, it is the _only_ day of the year that the Statute of Secrecy relaxes in many countries across the globe."

...

The class had been an enlightening experience for Harry, who had not spent all due attention during the previous Hallowe'en, but as he went from class to class with his fellow Slytherins, the professor's revelations lost a little of their lustre.

He didn't doubt the truth in the man's lesson, but in his excitement over his newly discovered facet of Wizarding culture, Harry had nearly forgotten the part his own history played on the holiday.

As always, he ignored the people who whispered about him. He respectfully avoided the circle of candles and photographs bordering the west courtyard, placed there in silent memory for the men and women who had lost their lives to Voldemort's war. In his distraction the previous year and avoidance of the general population, however, he had failed to notice his own house's disposition. It became apparent as the second-years moved from class to class and sat for lunch that while no one openly rejected Harry from their number, a rift _did_ exist. People like Daphne, whose father had been murdered for failing to fall in line, lay on one side of the divide along with the few recognised anti-Purists. Most of these, Harry noticed, were of his and the first years' number. The others – Neutrals, Purists, and Voldemort supporters, alike – claimed the other side.

To a non-Slytherin, he doubted anything looked different, but he could see the border delineated by slightly turned backs and elbows separating the moderates from the rest of the table.

"It wasn't like this last year," Harry whispered between bites of his sandwich.

He eyed his housemates neutrally, though none of those outside his group of friends met his gaze.

"I wasn't cavorting with Muggleborns and half-bloods last year," Draco sighed over his barely-touched meal. "I was preaching about how some day, the Dark Lord would rise again on a Hallowe'en to teach upstarts like you and Greengrass their proper place in the world."

Daphne scoffed bitterly, and the boy gave her an apologetic grimace.

"It appears my betrayal's just amplified their natural reaction."

"What did you expect?" Tracy rolled her eyes, not bothering to murmur despite the annoyed looks on some of her housemates' faces. "It was one thing to make nice with you, Potter, but it's another thing entirely when your magickless mother happily tramples all over the Purists' illusions of superiority."

"The delligi-whatsit doesn't help," Blaise added. "You lot handled that article well enough, but for a lot of people it gave them more reasons to stew in their own hatefulness."

"Dirigible," Harry corrected absently. "I guess you're right. I just don't understand it. Why take such effort to show me how much they don't care for me when I couldn't give a banana peel's worth what they think?"

"Oh?" Draco asked incredulously, his anxiety raising the pitch of his usually smooth drawl. "And why is that?"

The black-haired boy shrugged and grinned.

"I've lived with you all for over a year, now. I'd rather have a few good friends than a lot of tentative allies with questionable motives," he explained. "Besides, the Zabinis and Greengrasses alone hold a lot of sway in the Wizengamot, and Draco, since you're a Malfoy, as long as you make it to your majority I'm well set for political ties."

"Not to mention Bones and Longbottom," Daphne added primly. "Although I still don't know why you like that Granger girl."

The small smile quirking her lips took all the bite out of the otherwise haughty words. The girls had long overcome their differences. Fighting dark lords together did that.

...

The classes following lunch went by rather quickly as the clock ticked toward seven. Harry returned to his dormitory to find the common study empty of its usual occupants, and the common room itself practically deserted. He barely stopped to put down his bag before calling for his favourite elf.

"Cuddie?"

The excitable elf appeared with a soft _pop!_ of air displacement and a curtsy.

"Hello, Harry Potter, Sir," she smiled. "Cuddie has missed you since term started. What may Cuddie do to assist you?"

The boy grinned. He'd forgotten how much he liked the house elf and quickly resolved the feeling by wrapping her up in a hug. She squeaked, and he laughed.

"Hi Cuddie," he greeted, setting her down in his armchair.

She stared at him wide-eyed at the gesture.

"D'you think you could pop me over to my mum and dad's quarters? I need to go to a deathday party and all my formal robes are up there," he explained as he coaxed Kilat from her heat-charmed terrarium.

She coiled happily around her human's wrist and forearm under Harry's sleeve.

"Oh, yes, Harry Potter, Sir!" she squealed. "Will Miss Jenny Renette be there?"

Harry cast a quick _tempus_ and smiled.

"Yeah, she's home."

Cuddie giggled and eagerly grabbed the boy's hand. A moment of mild discomfort later, the Slytherin stood at the centre of the small stone-floored entry. A modest, but comfortably furnished sitting room lay beyond the granite edged by a large bay window fitted with a bench and several overstuffed cushions. Pale floral fabric in complementary colours upholstered two facing sofas, an armchair, and an ottoman, all arranged asymmetrically before a chestnut-framed fireplace burning merrily in the centre of the room. The walls wore a cheery, pale blue. A small kitchen stood visible through an arched chestnut doorway off to the right, and two doors led out of the sitting room from either side of the fireplace. One held a sign that read, _Jenny Renette &amp; Harry James_, and the other, _The Doctor &amp; Rose_.

The nearer door burst open with the sound of their entry, and a girl still clad in her burgundy blazer and navy skirt leapt at her brother. He caught her out of habit. Cuddie laughed somewhere at Harry's elbow.

"Today's your last detention, right?" she asked with a frown. "It's been _ages_ since we've flown."

"Yeah," Harry grinned, releasing the girl to stand on her own. "I'm going to a deathday party, actually. Flitwick knows how mad Dad and I are about ghosts and how all that works. Oh-"

He waved Cuddie forward. The elf hopped from foot to foot, eying the girl with unadulterated adoration. Elves _loved_ children.

"You remember Cuddie, right?"

"Hi Cuddie!" Jenny hugged the little elf. "Shall we have a snack and watch the telly?"

The house elf's ears twitched and she tilted her head slightly.

"What is a telly, Miss Jenny Renette?"

"Oh, you're gonna love it!"

She half dragged the hapless elf into the kitchen, where she raided the pantry for Nutella and biscuits, and plopped onto the sofa with Cuddie at her side. She clapped her hands, and a screen slid smoothly from a recession above the picture window. Harry rolled his eyes. It had taken all of two days before the girl had demanded her father work out the disconnect between satellite broadcasts and magical interference. Girl and elf settled in to watch cartoons, the girl in content and the elf in awed disbelief of the programme, so Harry felt comfortable leaving them to their own devices while he ate and dressed. The cold cupboard provided him with cold cuts and cheese, and the elf-stocked breadbox happily belched a French loaf at him at his request. He took huge bites out of his sandwich while looking through his wardrobe. The Slytherin finally settled on a silver waistcoat, a white shirt and bowtie, and a deep green, almost black fitted robe. He tucked Professor Flitwick's after-curfew permission note in his breast pocket before smoothing a generous helping of Sleekeasy's Hair Potion (courtesy an unknown relative named Fleamont Potter) into his unruly coif, and with one last look in the mirror, returned to the sitting room.

In the ten minutes he'd taken to get ready, the Doctor and Rose had returned to their quarters. Rose lay sprawled across an armchair in her most comfortable jeans, while Harry's dad sat on the floor with his back against her chair.

"About ready to go, Jemmy?" the Doctor grinned, withdrawing his arm from a bottomless satchel. "Do you have your sonic on you?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "I'm going to record everything they say about ghosty stuff."

"Excellent," the Time Lord pointed his screwdriver at his son, and Harry's pocket hummed happily in response. "I just uploaded some programming onto your scanner so it'll be taking care of energy readings for a twenty-foot radius. It's also going to record audio, so have fun and we'll work on it later."

Harry absently patted the holster under his right sleeve, glanced at his pocket watch, and waved to Jenny.

"Save me some Crunchies, yeah?"

The little girl grinned over the back of the sofa at him.

"Maybe. I might just stuff myself, but I _could_ be persuaded to trade some for a butterbeer or two."

Her brother rolled his eyes.

"I'll ask the twins."

With that, Harry shut the door and started making his way across the castle to the rarely used East Wing. He had not visited the long, airy passages since his midnight exploration with Neville, and his rediscovery of the place made him feel like venturing out again, now that he didn't have to schedule his responsibilities around detentions. The professor had been extremely creative to fit seven of the three-hour sessions into a couple of weeks.

As before, the stairways and corridors he travelled held neither doors nor lit sconces. The waning crescent outside filtered through the high, pointed gothic windows to cast bluish light against the naked stone underfoot. Without detailed instructions on how to find the ballroom, the Slytherin allowed his senses to stretch out and brush the walls and ceiling. Eventually, he felt the chill particular to ghosts, which led him down a flight of stairs and up another, down a narrow passageway he discovered behind a bit of wall masquerading as stone, and crested a landing onto what he thought might be the first floor. Black velvet carpet ran the length of the corridor, lit by floating black tapers whose light cast ghostly blue flashes against the windows and walls. He heard a faint, metallic, ringing sort of sound set against a string quartet and a piano calling him toward the wide, curtain-draped arch at the end of the corridor. The hauntingly strange sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and the cold crept past even the built in temperature control charms in his robes as he came closer to the ballroom's entrance. The drapes parted before his fingers could make contact with the fabric, and the smell hit him.

"My dear friend," Nicholas mournfully greeted with a deep bow and a sweep of his plumed hat. "Welcome… I'm so glad you could make it."

The ghost of honour gave him a wink, and Harry did his best to smile sympathetically as he stepped past the threshold. The boy's eyes swept the room, and it was all he could do not to crow in excitement at all the ghosts filling the space. A sextet floated above a raised platform, where the soloist played the musical saw with the bow of a violin, creating an eerie, warbling melody that wove in with its accompaniment in a way that both enchanted and repelled. It was beautiful, but the bone-tingling instrument created anxiety just by the frequencies it created. Behind them, a series of lavish arches and columns framed wide, oculus-topped windows of frosted panes, above which soared two more levels arched, stained glass casements shadowed by the high, vaulted ceiling. Lavishly dressed ghosts danced around the band, uncaring of such obstacles as stone columns while they waltzed.

Kilat, curled tight around his wrist under his sleeve, writhed fearfully and began curling her way up his arm to his bicep.

"_Thisss feelsss like blindnesss,"_ she complained. _"I sssee only you and ssmell only deathhh."_

"_Sorry," _he murmured sympathetically. _"Feel free to hang around my neck and shoulders if it's warmer."_

"_I promissse only to sssqueaze a little,"_ the cheeky little snake answered. "_But I expect a hunt, sssoon."_

The boy rolled his eyes. The elves would be pleased by her assistance with the mundane rats, by any rate.

Harry carefully made his way through the milling guests, wary of stepping through anyone or unintentionally interrupting a conversation. He spotted the Grey Lady, who gave him a small smile and a nod, and he also recognized the Friar of Hufflepuff speaking to a ghost with an arrow sticking out of his head. His own house ghost, the Bloody Baron, stood away from the other guests and stoically observed the crowd while the occasional movement of his translucent wine cup set his chains to clanging. With no one else in his presence and the advantage of a prior introduction under his belt, Harry made a beeline for the intimidating spirit.

"My lord," he greeted with a bow. "How are you this evening?"

The man's gaunt, angular face tilted toward him, and the dull, staring eyes roved over the student's face without betraying any emotion. He gave his own courtly bow, and the movement momentarily exposed he dark silver stain of blood spread from his shoulder to the hem of his belted tunic. His shoulder-length curls momentarily obscured his face, and Harry thought he might have been handsome in life, like some of the illustrations in his sister's fairy stories.

Unlike other little girls, though, she particularly enjoyed the parts of those books where dragons or ogres noshed the foolish knights and princes the Slytherin ghost resembled.

"Well as anyone could be in death, I suppose," he said in a deep, low voice. "Which is to say, not well at all."

He laughed hollowly.

"But if you meant how I find my surroundings, I admit to mild amusement. There are wizards and witches here whom I've not seen in centuries."

"I wonder what that must feel like," the boy said a little wistfully. "To be ageless, yet not."

The apparition's moustache twitched, and his gaze sharpened a little to better examine the child who dared speak to him without invitation.

"It is lonely," he whispered darkly. "If ever you find yourself passed into Death's shadow, go gently with him lest you wish to torment your soul for eternity."

"Did…" Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I apologize if I'm being indelicate, and please tell me if I am, and I'll happily pick another topic, but er-"

The Baron smirked and stepped slightly forward to allow a pair of dancers to pass. Harry shivered at his proximity, but the ghost made no indication of his displeasure.

"Well, I sort of wondered if you knew, before that point, if you could become a ghost."

The nobleman shifted back a bit, his leather boots making not a sound against the marble floor. He raised a hand toward one of the floating black candles, and so close to the light source, the boundaries of his digits swam in and out of focus: there one moment, gone the next like so much smoke.

"I knew ghosts existed, of course. I knew not how it happened until I myself made the choice," he explained darkly. "I committed a horrible crime, you see, in a moment of grief and madness. I did not understand, then, that a man can own no other than himself, and even then, not completely. Death met me soon after to show me the path onward. There was no way back, exactly, but there was a way to step to the side. I wished to atone. I wished my crime to be known, to deter any who came after me from following the same sorry course."

Harry's brain whirred around the influx of information. He and the Doctor had theorised on how ghosts happened. The latter had experienced the strange half-presence of beings resting in a locked pocket of space-time, after all. Finally, they would have first-hand accounts of the experience.

"And when you stepped sideways?" the boy prompted softly.

The ghost's face blanked again, and his luminous curls bounced with the shake of his head.

"I am here," he slowly murmured. "And yet I am not here. When I close my eyes, complete darkness envelops me, and I can feel nothing. Hear nothing. I cannot touch-"

For emphasis, the man brushed his hand over Harry's shoulder as if to brace it. Harry's teeth gnashed at the shock of cold like a bucket of ice splashed over him, but it faded as soon as the ghost lifted his fingers.

"-And yet you can sense something of my presence. I can speak, though I lack the flesh I thought I needed to do so…" the Baron trailed off and stared hard at the young Slytherin. "You are an odd child, Potter. Most tend to avoid me."

Harry smiled and shrugged.

"Most tend not to take the time to get to know me," he commented. "I think it's in poor taste to form opinions about something without experiencing it first-hand."

The ghost downed another ethereal cup, and his moustache twitched again.

"Hm. I still have not decided whether the Hat chose well with you," he admitted neutrally. "Certainly you have the mind to rise to great heights, but for all that I am, I cannot see what you wish to accomplish."

Harry gestured out a window.

"I want the stars," he said with soft conviction. "I'll never see them up close unless we make some serious changes."

Suddenly, the Baron broke out in harsh, thundering laughter that momentarily stalled the music and the chatter around them. The guests recovered quickly, but many stared at the pair of Slytherins with utterly disturbed looks on their faces.

"Ah," the ghost chuckled. "Whether you triumph or not – and I cannot see how you could – I'm sure no one would ever expect _that_. But perhaps there's something more to you."

With that, the ancient Slytherin drifted through the floor, and Harry quickly moved away from the empty circle of floor just to avoid the stares of the curious apparitions still following him with their eyes. Wrinkling his nose, he followed the stench he'd detected earlier to a lavish table draped with yet more black velvet and spread with rich silver and crystal. Great, rotting fish on beds of blackened lettuce and fruits lay across sparkling salvers. Breads burned coal-black rose in decorative towers at intervals. An enormous, maggoty roast pig lay further down the line, and a great haggis surrounded by flies occupied a crystal platter. As he watched, a knight with a broken blade of a sword protruding from the slot in his visor bent and walked through the roast, and Harry wondered whether he could somehow taste the rancid food. In the place of honour, an austere cake sculpted in the shape of a tombstone with a moulded ogee edge towered over the other dishes. Its baker had carefully painted the fondant surfaces with greys, blacks and greens to create a very realistic looking head stone complete with the ghost's death date written with tar-black icing in gothic lettering:

_Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington_

_31 October 1513_

The music stopped, and Harry stopped his examination of the morbid feast to follow the ghosts' gazes as the man of the hour took the stage. It took only a few moments for the remaining chatter to fall away. Sir Nicholas stared around at his guests mournfully.

"Thank you, lords, ladies, and gentlewizards, for joining me on this, the five hundredth anniversary of my near beheading," he began. "Nothing warms my weary soul more than the knowledge that even in death, I have such true and good folk to call friends on whom I can always count to share in my sorrows."

A small smattering of applause filled a short pause, and Harry began working his way toward the stage, carefully skirting the ghostly forms, just to get away from the horrific stench of the fascinating but disgusting spread.

"As a knight in the court of His Majesty King Henry VIII, assured of my place in the world and of the wealth amassed by my forbearers, I squandered my youth on frivolities. My only aspiration was to eventually produce an heir for my estates and to marry a lady of goodly standing and magical stock."

His self-deprecating tone combined with an exaggerated eye roll demonstrated his opinion of his previous self, and the audience twittered its sympathy and shared amusement. Nicholas grasped his hair close to his scalp, and tipped his head sideways as if it moved on a hinge, exposing a cross section of broken vertebrae and sinew.

"You see how well that went," he said sardonically before righting his head and securing it with his unusually high collar.

The only living person in the audience wondered for what he felt was the millionth time how physical things became part of a ghost's existence. If they were beings trapped in a pocket of the void running parallel to Earth, then how could they choose what things joined them? Nicholas's high, ruffled collar, for example, seemed more appropriate for Elizabethan fashion, which didn't quite gain traction until the rule of the period's namesake. Not to mention, they would not have sent him to the block in his best clothes if he were going to die. The guards of the tower would have happily relieved him of such finery or passed his things on to a family member.

"In my youth and my foolishness, I often made a habit of impressing ladies of the court with my magic. I assisted surgeon-barbers with subtle feats of healing, and eventually, my staggering reputation brought Lady Grieve to join my stroll through the gardens at Hampton Court," he continued. "Though comely of face and well-liked by many, the lady rarely smiled for fear of exposing what she thought to be horrendously crooked teeth. I offered my assistance, as any gentlewizard might, but in my distraction at her bearing and visage, I grew her a tusk, instead."

Harry blinked as the audience laughed around him, many sloshing wine from cups whose origins he could not discern. Nicholas, however, raised his hands for quiet, his face sombre, and order quickly restored.

"Oh, you laugh, and you jest, but for the pain I caused and spectacle I created, I found the royal guard at my house come midnight. To the tower I went, and in the morning, the block, where I knelt to receive my end."

He put a hand to his throat and surveyed his guests with a regretful mien.

"I never wished to cause harm to the lady, and doubtless I deserved some punishment for wielding my wand so carelessly, but thought I could fix my mistake to keep my head. But for using witchcraft to curse another, there could be no forgiveness in His Majesty's eyes. The headsman staggered up with his great axe, and in fear I bid him make it swift," he lamented. "He promised me a painless farewell – done in an instant, said he – but the first strokes missed entirely and ate at my back, instead. At least one of the next forty-two attempts swung true enough, but the blade's dull edge more crushed than cut, and only partly struck my head from neck."

He paused to indulge in the mournful, sympathetic sounds sweeping his guests. Harry stared around in confusion. The mood shifted between almost-merry celebration (not unlike a birthday gala thrown for one of his granddad Pete's peers), and a wake. The second-year even caught sight of some finely dressed court ladies quietly sobbing into handkerchiefs.

"And although I suffered such pain, humiliation, and sorrow for the days I would never live, I have found consolation for my heavy heart in your companionship," he straightened, smiling sadly around at the hundreds of smoke-like ghosts filling the hall, and raised his translucent wine cup. "May we go bravely together into the next millennia, shoulder to shoulder as comrades, and bound together by our mutual sorrow and love."

Ghostly tears shone oddly in an eye here and there, and the Friar clapped over his loud sniffles.

"To Sir Nicholas!" someone shouted.

Freezing cold doused Harry from head to toe as phantasmal wine and mead splashed from goblets and glasses held above his head. He bit back his yelp of surprise to join in with the cheering guests.

"HIP-HIP-"

"HUZZAH!"

"HIP-Hip-"

"HUZZAAHHH!"

The mourning seemed to end, then, and Nick grinned as he jauntily stepped off the stage to meet his young guest, who lingered nearby to congratulate him.

"That was a fantastic speech," Harry complimented. "Very moving and highly illuminating. I wondered though-"

"Did the Lady manage to fix her tusk?" Nicholas offered knowingly. "Yes, everyone always asks. His Majesty's court wizard and barber-surgeon sought her out, filled her full of Spanish wine, and discreetly shrunk it back down to a normal tooth. The barber-surgeon told her he'd filed it down, I think."

The Slytherin shook his head in amazement, unable to help a disbelieving laugh.

"So are you learning any lessons from your detention?" the jovial ghost teased. "Just in case anyone asks, you should have a good story, after all."

Harry grinned and shrugged.

"I'll tell them I have to write a report, later, which I essentially will by the time my dad and I are done," he assured him. "In all serious, thank you for inviting me. I wonder, though, why did you think of _me_ to begin with instead of one of your Gryffindors?"

The ghost shifted a little self-consciously, and a darker silver flush almost made his cheeks opaque for a moment. He plucked a see-through envelope from a pouch on his belt and held it so Harry could see.

"…They won't let you in their club because your head's technically still attached?" the boy clarified, his brow furrowed. "Really? After your horrifying death?"

"Exactly my point!" the gentleman exclaimed. "What point is there in all that indignity if I can't even go out riding with the rest of the men? Sir Perfectly-Beheaded Podmore was my _squire_ in life, I'll have you know, and I'm thrice the hunter he is! Anyhow… this is my ninety-second rejection, and I thought you might put in a good word for me. You're renowned among the dead for your part in ending the unkillable, not to mention that business last year."

The Slytherin worked his mouth, closed it, and frowned as he turned over Nicholas's grievances.

"I take it there aren't any other clubs of good standing out there?" he asked neutrally. "Better clubs, I mean, without berks like this Podmore chap."

Nicholas harrumphed and shoved the letter back into his pouch. His shoulders slumped.

"No, as luck would have it," he admitted. "It's the only one in the aisles."

"Well," Harry reasoned. "In that case, I'm sure there are plenty of other worthy ladies and gentlewizards just like yourself who've been disallowed access to their little pity-party. Why not create your own hunting club? You could call it the 'Horrific Huntsmen,' or perhaps the 'Horrendous Hunt.' Well, actually I think some differentiation might be good, like the 'Moonlit Riders.'"

The ghost sighed, shaking his head and setting it to wobble dangerously in its ruffled collar.

"No one would want to follow me. Why would they?" he muttered bitterly.

His friend frowned and made a vague gesture with his hand.

"Well, why not just invite some of your fellow hunting enthusiasts on a moonlit chase, informally of course, and see where it goes from there. You could really stir up some mayhem," he suggested with an encouraging smile. "Go for it. You're nice, and everyone I know of likes you. Surely your centuries-long friends would love a diversion like that."

A pensive look overtook the bitter curl of Nicholas's mouth and chin, and he ran a hand over his silvery whiskers.

"I think I will try that. Filius told me you were a clever one, balancing yourself in the snake pit and beyond-"

The boy shrugged.

"I just don't give my time to anyone who doesn't deserve it," he smiled. "Whether for good or bad. This Sir Podmore person sounds like he's not worth your time, Sir Nick. You can do a lot better than someone who dismisses you for something you can't help."

Nicholas made to hug Harry, which ended in the ghost sighing a wistful apology and Harry's teeth chattering for fifteen minutes after, but the man of the hour left his side standing a little taller than before. A good thing, too, since the Headless Hunt arrived two hours later on ghost horses – Harry vowed to investigate deeply into the readings produced by their presence, because he just could _not_ grasp the rules of what could become phantasmal – and quickly made its best effort to shift all attention to club's antics. The Gryffindor house ghost's face went from frustrated and hurt to indifferent with the smallest glance at his young friend, and the impromptu game of head polo came to an abrupt end as Nicholas deftly kicked the rolling head over the players' shoulders. He affected a bored tone reminiscent of the Baron's usual drawl and slyly mentioned his plans to go riding on the next full moon. He smiled and made vague promises to inform the ladies and gentlemen who praised his athleticism and expressed his interest. Sir Podmore's boyish features fell into a pout.

Harry wandered the company a little longer, but as the hour grew later and his fifth successive warming charm wore off, he determined he had fulfilled his obligations, enjoyed the party more than he thought he might, and ought to find his way back to bed after perhaps getting a bit of treacle in the great hall. With a grateful goodbye to his host, the Slytherin made his way back to the ballroom's entrance, through the long, candlelit corridor and back to the abandoned moonlit paths. His feet ached, he realized, as heat returned to the half-numbed toes and the nerves caught up to the amount of time he'd spent standing around in what essentially amounted to an icebox. He followed the smell of pumpkin pie, which tantalised his senses after four hours inhaling eau de rancid offal.

His tired tread dragged and slapped against the stone. He zigged and zagged with the East Wing's main stairwell, turned a corner, followed a secret passageway, until he emerged onto the main floor. He faintly heard laughter and excited talk borne from too much caffeine and sugar. The feast called to him for its warmth and for its attendees. He wondered whether his sister might have saved him some Crunchies, or if not, whether he could coax Cuddie to invent an elf-made version. Nothing, in his opinion, tasted better than chocolate-coated honeycomb in bar-shape.

He smiled at the crowded hall from the arched doorway. He spotted Hermione, whose parents outlawed real sugar in her house on principal, animatedly argued with Hannah and Susan over a gigantic pile of sweets and minced pies, likely won from a game of exploding snap. She always won because of her memory. Harry refused to play because storing that sort of information never made sense to him. Also, he rather liked his eyebrows. At the table beside hers, Neville chatted with Dean Thomas while the Weasley twins randomly set off wet-start fireworks. Neither seemed to care that McGonagall's piercing, unblinking gaze followed their every move with a nerve twitching over her right eyebrow. Luna Lovegood sat apart from the rest of her house, as always, but she seemed happy enough with her uniform fully in order and an impressive model of Saint James's Palace taking form on her plate from bits of cake and fudge. His own house retained a little of its frigid air, but without his presence, it seemed the other second, third and first years had returned to cordial conversation with his small group of close friends. Despite the other things he felt in association with the date, being there, in the presence of everyone he liked and admired, filled Harry with a sense of contentment he felt not often enough.

…_Come…_

He paused half over the threshold, straining his ears to hear over the feasters.

_...Come take my hand, lost, wandering lamb…_

The faint song barely registered in his brain. Kilat, who had fallen asleep across the back of his neck and wrapped around one of his biceps, stirred in response to his rising pulse. The sound chilled him more than the ballroom ever could. Icy fingers dug sharply into his spine and clenched into a fist somewhere in his belly. The melody dipped and rose in an unfamiliar way, so shrill he wanted to cringe in pain. He stared wildly over his shoulder to sweep the hall for the source.

_Come, let me guide you away, let me take you in my embrace…_

The words should have been comforting, but in that hideous, many-layered chorus of piercing voices of nails on glass.

…_Enfolded in darkness, you'll feel no pain. In my arms you'll find solace…_

He turned on his heel. Kilat's head hissed near his ear. He absently registered Neville waving to him from the corner of his eyes. The feast was too loud. He could barley make out the words, yet still their grip on his insides twisted tighter and tighter. His heart pounded against his collarbone.

…_I bring escape, sweet, dear one, where fear will no more bind you…_

"JUST SHUT UP FOR A MINUTE!"

Silence fell in the hall behind him, but the song grew fainter, moving away.

…_Come: Greet Death, sweet gentle lamb…_

Harry pushed with everything he could, reaching out toward the feeling of terror, and before the song could fade entirely, bolted away from the great hall for the main staircase. Kilat's protests had devolved to furious, wordless threats directed at the source of her human's mania hissed into his ear while he took the stairs three at a time. He pushed himself faster, harder than he ever did for Quidditch or footie. The nimble boy swung himself around balustrades and skid crouched around corners. His palms tingled with a ready banishing hex.

"Argh!" he gasped as icy water soaked his trousers and flooded his shoes, and immediately cursed the distraction.

The boy reached again, feeling for anything he couldn't recognize, and willed his ears to hear the malicious song again.

"_Do you hear or taste anything unusual?"_ he snapped.

Kilat, recognizing his sharpness for the fear it was, nuzzled her cool head under his ear.

"_No, human boy. I sssee and tassste nothing sssave what we ssshould."_

"Harry!"

Neville, Hermione, Draco and Daphne crested the landing, all flushed varying shades, clutching stitches, and panting for breath.

"What's the matter with you, running off like that?" Draco demanded. "Everyone thinks you're mad after that display."

"Shush!" Harry commanded, his ears still straining. "I've lost it!"

Daphne grabbed his sleeve before he could advance into the dark, and he would have thrown off her grip if not for the fear he saw in her usually amused eyes.

"Lost what?"

"The voice, it was- It was singing about killing someone."

"What's-" a horrified expression flashed across Hermione's face, and her cheeks turned ashen. "What's that, there?"

Everyone turned at once, and Harry caught his wand in his hand. They sloshed through the flood to the end of the corridor, where pale tendrils of smoke swirled from snuffed candles and dark sconces. No window lit the way forward. A shadow swayed stiffly in and out of view.

"_Lumos_," Harry incanted.

Wet, dark burgundy dripped over the ancient stone. The smell of copper stung his nose, and his heart beat somewhere in his throat as the Slytherin raised his wand higher, pushing more power into the spell. Its stark white light threw the corridor into sharp contrast, and the words painted in foot-high letters glistened menacingly on the long stretch beneath empty torch brackets in the harsh white glare. A shadow swung back and forth across the space like some perverse pendulum, but the minor obstacle did nothing to blot out the message:

_THE CHAMBER IS OPEN, ITS SECRETS REVEALED - _

_ALL SOON SHALL QUAIL 'NEATH THE HEIR'S FORCE OF WILL_


	12. The Monster that Wasn't

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.

A/N: Thanks for your support, time, and love. Please let me know what you think. It's really motivating and encouraging to see what stands out to you. I hope you enjoy.

**Warnings: Foul language and on-screen evidence of off-screen animal cruelty**

* * *

Chapter Twelve: The Monster that Wasn't

* * *

Mrs Norris swayed away, then back, and away again in front of the glistening text, hanging stiffly by her tail from the rope tethering her to the darkened iron chandelier overhead. Harry felt someone touch his shoulder, and he turned as the rumble of a thousand feet grew louder on the main staircase. It seemed the feast had ended, and curiosity had drawn more than just Ravenclaws and Gryffindors to the second floor landing. Cries of surprise and annoyance announced their arrival on the landing as unsuspecting feet and ankles encountered the icy water still flowing sluggishly from an unknown source, refusing to pour through the spaces between the balusters despite its depth. Harry thought perhaps some wise headmaster or teacher had erected containment fields for just that purpose, or the house elves might have acted proactively to protect the floors below.

The shadow moved back and forth, smaller and larger, its shape changing and twisting against the water, the bloodied wall, and the one opposite.

Whispers laced with panic and alarm spread through the craning crowd as they began processing what their optical nerves translated.

"Move aside!"

Harry felt sick. His head ached. His heart continued its frantic tap-dance against his sternum. He felt cold and hot all at once.

"What're you all doing standing around like a flock of sheep? What's going on, here?"

Argus Filch, the balding old caretaker, demanded with his jowls quivering in barely restrained anger.

"What-" he stopped, and a horrible, strangled sort of noise ripped from his throat. "Mrs Norris! What's happened to my baby?"

He shoved through the tightly packed crowd, sending a few unfortunate students careening into the railing, and splashed through the flood to gently unknot the rope suspending her. The feline retained its rigidity, its eyes still staring blankly as her master tried to wake her. He blew air into her nose and began rhythmic compressions on her bony ribcage. Hermione's hand pulled on his elbow, and he belatedly realised he still held his lit wand aloft. He lowered it slowly, taking the wide-cast pool of luminescence with it, and allowed Filch's crouched body the privacy of the shadows. Neville's trembling grip found his shoulder and squeezed. Kilat continued her wordless tirade in a hiss too low for the other humans to hear.

The caretaker wheezed a long breath into the still animal, pressed again on her ribcage for one, two, three, four, five beats, and repeated it all over again.

"Mr Filch?" a particularly brave Gryffindor boy asked tremulously, stepping slightly away from the silent onlookers behind the quintet. "Mr Filch, should we get Madam Pomfrey?"

Everyone listened anxiously to the man's harsh, panting wheezes. Phlegm made his exhales whistle slightly with each breath. He staggered to his feet, sobbing brokenly as he clutched the furry statue to his breast.

"You-" he gasped, eyes snapping up, bulging madly beneath the harsh light. "YOU!"

The man charged forward and yanked with one arm Harry from his friends by the lapels of his dress robes. The boy's wand disappeared back into its holster as his fingers released it, and both hands clutched tight to the enraged caretaker's bony hand and wrist.

"YOU MURDERED HER!" Filch shrieked, shaking him hard, spittle flying from his trembling maw.

"STOP!" Hermione screamed, tugging on his arm and resorting to powerful stinging hexes when her strength had no effect. "LET HIM GO!"

Harry's ears rang. Draco and Daphne shouted and hissed indignant threats, trying their own releasing and stinging spells. He felt Neville's arms tugging around his middle while his own feet struggled to find the floor. His toes skid and scrabbled. His head ached. The rushing, staticky noise swelled like some horrible wave. The sting of ozone and blood burned his nose and throat.

"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL FUCKING KILL Y-"

"Put my boy down, NOW."

Rose's loud, cold command cut through the shocked students' panicked murmurs and the second years' raucous struggle, her wide eyes blazing with the unsaid threat. Filch's lower lip curled and shook, and his scruffily whiskered chin wrinkled beneath the pucker. The man stared at his captive, and Harry watched the fire die out in his dilated pupils and pale, watery irises. His grip loosened, and the Slytherin staggered away from him, half-dragged by his horrified friends. The woman cupped her son's cheek, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and turned to coax the cat from Filch's left arm.

"Argus-"

Dumbledore gently nudged his way to the front of the throng with his deputy and the other heads-of-house in his wake. He nodded gratefully to Rose, whose intense stare and pursed mouth had yet to relax.

"It is natural to feel grief and anger at such an attack; however, nothing gives you the right to lay hands on anyone inside this castle, let alone her students," the headmaster gravely intoned. "You will apologise to Mr Potter-Smith post-haste."

The man sobbed an intelligible phrase, his face in his hands, and Harry gave his indignant housemates a look to silence their furious protests. There were much more important things to deal with than a grieving man's anger.

"Now, Mr Potter-Smith-"

The headmaster turned his attention to the young Slytherin. He was vaguely aware of the Heads-of-House making brusque inquiries while shooing their charges to bed.

"I have a feeling your sudden about-face at the Great Hall has something to do with how you came to be here, of all places," he said a little wearily. "Am I right in my hunch?"

Rose watched beadily out of the corner of her eye. The hum of the Doctor's screwdriver sounded loud to her son's ears as she ran scans over Mrs Norris, the corridor, the writing, and even the ankle-deep water.

"I…" Harry tried to focus, but the buzzing in his ears hadn't faded.

It was as if he had forgotten something important, even vital, but he couldn't place it over the roar in his head.

"I thought I heard-" he said distractedly.

His forehead felt clammy under his palm as he swept his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.

"Headmaster," Rose interrupted urgently. "You need to see this."

She held the Doctor's blue-tipped screwdriver over the cat, which she'd kept cradled to her chest since its liberation from Filch.

"Ah, excellent," Dumbledore smiled after finishing his own diagnosis. "Excellent luck, Argus. She's not dead. Merely petrified. We can set her to rights as soon as Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape whip up a restorative draught."

He straightened to survey the exhausted, frightened children and his anxious staff. A sweep of his wand vanished the freezing water. A spiralling motion of his forefinger made steam rise from their sodden hems and shoes, and a jab restored the warmth to chilled fingers and toes.

"Children, if you will follow Professors Sinistra and Smith up to my office, I will join you shortly," he smiled wanly at them. "Septima, if you could take Argus and Mrs Norris down to the infirmary...?"

"Of course, Albus," the sober-faced woman agreed. "Come along, now, Mr Filch. We'll get her sorted."

"I'll assist, of course," a self-confident voice offered. "I've created mandrake draughts so many times I could do it in my sleep."

Snape turned to glare at Lockhart, and the blonde wisely refrained from further self-aggrandising commentary before disappearing down the stairway in Professor Vector's wake.

The second-years, meanwhile, trudged after professors Smith and Sinistra, leaving the headmaster to confer with his heads-of-house and remaining faculty. Hermione and Daphne clung to one another as they ascended the stairs, and Neville and Draco walked stoically at Harry's sides. No one, not even Kilat, spoke. Across the castle, the clock tower began its midnight toll. The hollow sound seemed an appropriate backdrop to the evening's events.

They finally arrived before a stone gargoyle with a vaguely canine face and wide, bat-like wings that protruded from the masonry behind it.

"Sherbet Lemon," Professor Sinistra enunciated carefully.

The statue leapt aside, and the stretch of wall it occupied turned, revealing a moving, spiral staircase behind it. The astronomer stepped on, and Rose ushered the children ahead of her before joining them.

Even in their varying states of panic, fear, and worry, the children could not help but admire the headmaster's office. Spindly tables and pedestals or glass-enclosed cabinets displayed a vast assortment of delicate instruments that filled the wide, circular space with cheerful but strange noises. Some puffed out multicoloured smoke with small whistles, hoots, or (in one case) sounds of flatulence. Others spun, rocked, hopped, and vibrated across their various surfaces. Bookcases, curved to stand flush against the walls, climbed to heights inaccessible by anything save magic. The spaces between these towering monuments to knowledge housed gilt frames in which ancient witches and wizards gently snored. These, too, climbed the walls and spiralled around the space almost to the domed ceiling, but a few portraits claimed pride of place behind an enormous, claw-footed desk occupying the centre of the room.

Against it leaned the one person Harry wanted to see most.

"Dad!" he nearly shouted upon noticing the duster-and-suit-clad man.

The Doctor opened his arms immediately, and the Slytherin crossed the room faster than he thought himself able. He clung to his father with all his might while the man rubbed reassuring circles between his shoulder blades.

"No worries, Jemmy," he whispered. "I know. We'll sort it."

Harry barely heard the words through the high-pitched, buzzing hum in his ears, but the Doctor's familiar smell and the feeling of his arms around his shoulders gave him more comfort than he would ever admit out loud. It was a testament to their friendship and the seriousness of the situation that Draco or Daphne didn't comment on his response to seeing the man.

"Did you get anything else on the M3?" Rose prompted while examining the kids for harm.

They gamely put up with her quick scans and once-overs while Professor Sinistra distributed hot chocolates summoned from the kitchens. Everyone crowded closer around the headmaster's desk, partly to combat the feeling of cold that had nothing to do with the weather, and partly for greater proximity to the unfailingly confident and reassuring Doctor.

"No," he frowned and scratched behind his ear with the tip of his wand. "Well, sort of. A little. It kind of depends on what you mean by 'anything else'."

"Dad?" Harry pleaded thinly. "Do you mind..?"

"Yes, sorry," the Doctor took a deep breath in preparation for his usual fast-paced explanation. "The M3's a Magical Mapper and Monitor, in case anyone was wondering, and it basically works like CCTV except there aren't any cameras involved and a whole lot more time energy translation and analysis systems built into it, but same basic principle. It alerts us and the headmaster to unusual activity not belonging to students or faculty, and also records magic and wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff throughout the castle."

He let his son go to free his own hands and so the boy could accept a mug for himself. A crystal sphere hopped obligingly out of his pocket, and a flick of his wand set it to hover over the Headmaster's neat desk. The chandeliers and floating candles throughout the space dimmed to near darkness, and the sphere glowed brightly before projecting a shimmering hologram above the desk's surface. Neville and Draco stepped closer to Harry's sides, and behind him, he registered Dumbledore and the heads-of-house coming through the door. Meanwhile, the Doctor's wand directed his device to zoom in on the image of Hogwarts, through the roof and the separate floors, until Harry finally recognised the first floor's layout.

"Let's see… at 11:00, it looks like the ghost of Miss Myrtle Warren returned to her usual haunt-"

The Doctor further zoomed in on the corridor outside the first floor girls' bathroom, and the professors who had not yet seen his favourite visual aid made sounds of appreciation as the miniature rendering of the apparition in question went through the wall beside the facility's entrance. Moments later, a girl with bright red hair fled the area, chased by a flood of water that splashed violently against the still-swinging door and rushed into the corridor. He further impressed them when he poked the image, and it spat forth a glowing gold report of numbers and words.

"That's one ghost accounted for, no other beings, creatures, or sources of magic," the Doctor explained, twisting his wand.

The recording sped, tracked by the skittish dance of tiny flames capping candles and sconces, until abruptly, darkness engulfed the corridor. The Doctor paused and reversed a bit to replay at normal speed, and everyone watched again as the northernmost lights snuffed out as if in a strong gust, quickly followed by the others all the way down to the corridor's south entrance. Mrs Norris's small body slunk around the corner shortly after. Her lamp-like eyes blinked, and she proceeded through the water and into the shadows, where a blue outline denoted her position and movements. She seemed to be staring at something with her tail raised high into the air, but the outline blinked out after a final angry twitch of her tail.

"11:30," the headmaster observed.

Harry felt his friends jump slightly, and realised they hadn't noticed the others' return. The Doctor made a wordless sound of agreement and again fast-forwarded until Harry appeared in the remaining pool of torchlight at the end of the corridor.

"And at 11:55," he concluded, while the scene played from the other second years' arrival until the professors' departure. "I've checked the rest of the floor starting from the beginning of this week, and there wasn't anything out of the norm. The only people to stay in the corridor for any length of time were first and second-year girls going in and out of the loo. Everyone else was on their way to elsewhere."

"Which brings us to you, Mr Potter," Dumbledore said not unkindly.

Harry turned and shrunk back a little from the intensity of his blue-eyed stare. He felt a hand brace his shoulder reassuringly.

"What led to your, ah…" he smiled slightly as he searched for a word. "Exclamation in front of the great hall and your subsequent departure?"

The boy glanced from the headmaster to Flitwick, and then to his parents.

"I was serving detention, Sir," he explained shortly. "I was assigned to help Sir Nick during his deathday do, but I heard-"

He frowned and rubbed his aching temples.

"I heard-"

"Hold on," the Doctor interrupted, coming around the table.

He squished Harry's cheeks between his hands, turning the boy's head one way, then another, and finally pressed an ear to the crown of his son's head.

"Er- Dad?"

"Shush," he commanded.

His wand hummed in a familiarly sonicky way as its user ran it over Harry's forehead. The boy's pinched face relaxed when finally, _finally_, the horrid noise and throbbing dissipated.

"Doctor?" Dumbledore lightly prompted, his face just as confused as his students' and tenured faculty's.

"Something for later, also fixing a headache," the history professor dismissed with an easy smile. "Go on, Harry. What did you hear?"

"Kilat heard it, too," he began again, lifting his wrist so the others could see the coiled, much becalmed snake. "There was this music, sort of. Like singing, but really eerie, it was sort of echo-y. It said-"

Harry glanced around, wary of the varying scepticism on his friends' and teachers' faces.

"It sounded like it was going to kill someone," he finished quietly, unable to meet their eyes. "I didn't want to lose it."

He heard his mother's unmistakable sigh – the one she used when disappointed or angry – and it was all he could do not to cringe. He practically felt Snape's eyes boring into his head. In retrospect, his reaction hadn't approached any approximation of logic, but in his defence, he could barely think through the pain lancing his brain at the time. The professors murmured anxiously behind his friends, who exchanged worried glances and subtle gestures that he pretended not to see.

"Perhaps Mr Potter should visit the infirmary," McGonagall suggested gently. "It seems to have been a very trying day."

The boy caught his parents' gazes pleadingly, but his head-of-house came to his rescue before they could voice their objections.

"I doubt the child imagined the voice, Minerva," Snape dismissed in dry, clipped tones. "Potter-Smith has an idiotically developed awareness of magical fields and effects. He likely detected what most would dismiss as a passing sensation of foreboding. One would hope, however-"

He glared at all three of his charges as his voice sharpened drastically.

"That he would learn to _think_ before acting on those observations and that his friends might not encourage such behaviour."

"Yes, Sir," the Slytherins mumbled.

There was an awkward beat of silence broken by the Doctor clearing his throat.

"Bedtime, I think," Dumbledore gently suggested. "Since all your heads-of-house are present, I think you shall be well guarded on your way to your common rooms, so long as there's nothing left for the children to offer..?"

The headmaster directed the question to the Doctor and Rose, who shared in a wordless conversation of eyebrow twitches and subtle shrugs before turning to their son.

"I'm all right, now," he quickly assured them. "I'm fine."

"We can leave everything else until after the kids are better rested," the Doctor allowed.

The exhausted children agreed in mumbles and gratefully followed McGonagall, Sprout, and Snape past whispering portraits and dimly burning torches to the main stairwell, where McGonagall led Neville away for the seventh floor and the others continued deeper into the castle's bowels. Hermione bid her Slytherin friends a quiet goodnight before the great hall, leaving Draco, Daphne and Harry to walk silently in Snape's shadow. The twisting, changing corridors of the furthest wing in the dungeons echoed the sounds of their footsteps back at them. The gothic lanterns overhead hissed and flickered in the damp and pervasive draft. When they finally reached the wall-that-wasn't-a-wall, the Professor left them without a word, and they stepped through to face a tensely occupied common room.

It seemed everyone had waited up to hear what happened first-hand, and Harry fleetingly hoped Neville and Hermione weren't experiencing the same reception. His gut twisted, and he felt very glad he had not stopped for treacle tart before chasing after the disembodied voice.

"So?" Montague finally demanded. "Did you do it?"

The two hundred and fifty-some students, mostly upper-years, stared at them expectantly.

"Do you think Dumbledore would have let us leave if he thought we had?" Draco finally said as scathingly as he could manage. "Of course not, you idiot."

"And we don't know what happened, either," Harry added tiredly. "So don't bother asking."

Many muttered and complained, but no one stood in their way as the boys returned to their shared den and Daphne retreated to her own with Tracy at her side. Blaise helpfully hexed Nott, Crabbe and Goyle for his friends so Harry and Draco could retreat to the former's room. The door snapped shut with a satisfying sort of finality, and Harry gratefully fell across his mattress, much to Kilat's displeasure. She hissed at him and quickly slithered off to sleep under his pillow. He heard more than saw Draco collapse similarly into the armchair by the stove.

"I suppose this is what your dad's note was talking about?" Harry mumbled dully. "What does it even mean?"

"It's an old story about Salazar Slytherin," Draco said through his hands. "Supposed to be legend, but…"

Harry sat up with a groan. His hair stuck out everywhere after sweating out the Sleekeasy's, and his silk and wool dress robes had wrinkled badly. He undid his bowtie with a sigh as he watched his friend's conflicted face

"But your father apparently thinks it's true," he concluded. "How's it go?"

Draco rolled his eyes and squirmed until his head lay over one arm of the chair and his knees draped over the other.

"You know," he muttered. "Slytherin got into a fight with Hufflepuff and Gryffindor about recruiting wizless kids to Hogwarts – Probably more over the secrecy issues for anyone who didn't choose to go or stay than anything, so much as most purists would hate to admit. Anyway, at that point the castle had already withstood sieges and wars, so each founder had armed the castle with unique defences. Ravenclaw did the statues and knights, and also the ward schemes. Gryffindor started the thestral and hippogriff stables, and he also installed ballistae on all the highest towers. You know, the automatic ones that conjure their own flaming projectiles. Hufflepuff had secret passages dug all over the place for escape and mobilisation purposes. Slytherin planted the forest and brought the first giant squid to the lake. I think he may have also invited the first centaur herds to go live there, but he's rumoured to have secretly done more."

He paused and sighed heavily.

"Father told me when I was little that the Dark Lord discovered the secret, and its only purpose was to purge Hogwarts of the unworthy."

Harry continued undressing in silence and had finished buttoning his pyjama shirt before he managed a reply.

"Like an animal or a weapon?" he frowned. "Both, I suppose?"

"Yes, on all accounts," Draco said grimly. "If it's true, it went after Mrs Norris because Filch is a squib."

Kilat, who had listened to their conversation despite her upset at the evening or her human's erratic behaviour, poked her head out from her hiding place.

"_We would have sssmelled a beassst,"_ she dismissed. _"Thisss is sssomething elssse."_

"_I know,"_ Harry answered softly.

Draco looked between the two and shuddered.

"What did she say?"

"If it's a beast, it's something that's so magically resistant it doesn't register, or it's not a monster at all," the parselmouth answered wearily.

"What could do that?"

Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair.

"I don't have a clue, Draco. We'll have to talk to the Doctor tomorrow."

* * *

**1 November 2013**

The morning, however, brought with it such news that even whispers of ancient chambers and speculation on Mrs Norris's attacker ceased the moment Hogwarts' students opened their copies of the morning _Prophet._ As sounds of surprise and disbelief swept the hall, small scuffles broke out among those unwilling to share their newspapers and those whose curiosity outweighed their impatience. Harry, who always greeted his parents with a wave and a smile in the mornings, found both his mum and dad too engaged with one another to notice his entrance. Their heads leaned together over the table. Snape, who always sat on Rose's right when Jenny could not come down for breakfast, scowled darkly at anyone who dared draw his attention. Harry took his seat between Draco, who ignored his breakfast to read his mail, and Daphne, whose eyes grew wider and wider as she read her copy of the publication.

"Daph..?" he prodded after taking several bites of sausage without anyone telling him anything about the apparently important news.

"Sweet Morgana," she huffed and slapped the boy's fork from his hand to clatter noisily against the plate below. "Stop stuffing your face and read!"

Harry wisely held his protests at her rough treatment, pushed his dark acrylic frames up on his nose, and promptly choked on his mouthful when he attempted to swallow and gasp at the same time.

_**Sirius Black Released:**_

_**Trial Eminent**_

_by Wilhelmina Williams, Senior Reporter for Ministry News_

_November 1, 2013 – New evidence uncovered in an internal investigation of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement revealed evidence indicating a severe miscarriage of justice as defined by the Judicial Acts of 1306, in which the constitution outlines the rules by which a person may be tried, imprisoned and punished. These laws extended protection to the citizenry against false persecution. They require enforcers of the law to petition for writs of arrest before detaining someone and further guarantee trial by jury as a right inherent to any citizen accused of criminal offence. Director of Magical Law Enforcement Amelia Bones said under law, Sirius Black (35) should have been tried in accordance to the act; however, he may not have received due process. _

"_We were conducting our annual filing and archiving," Bones said. "I stumbled across the file by complete accident. Someone had recently requested information about his arrest, and it hadn't made its way back to the archives what with the annual filing going on. Imagine my surprise when I picked it up, and it wasn't even a quill's thickness. It was suspicious, because even files on our petty criminals generally weigh a pound or two by the time we're done amassing evidence and documenting everything."_

_The director said its unusual size prompted her to read through so she might gage which papers had gone missing, but she only found a couple hand-written statements taken by the arresting aurors and the presiding judge. Typically, she said, the file would have contained processing documents, a writ of detainer to extend the prisoner's time in holding, and numerous statements recording the accused party's interview, witness interviews, and auror testimonies. Some proponents held Black's irregular processing might be justified as an unfortunate by-product of the times. Senior Undersecretary Delores Umbridge further elaborated on the apparently popular interpretation of the situation. _

"_Mr Black was tried in absentia according to emergency acts designed to protect the public in a time of war," she said. "Since, in addition to accusations of murder and muggle-slaughter, he was charged with treason for his part supporting the organisation known as the Death Eaters. Thus, a special tribunal met and judged his case based on witness testimony and extensive evidence."_

_Despite the undersecretary's assurances, however, Director Bones said no such evidence was entered into Black's official records; therefore, Black's current detention contradicts the law of the land. On that basis, Bones opened her investigation and began building a case for retrial. Yesterday, Oct. 31, during the final session of the Wizengamot for the year, a vote of 13:4 in favour authorised her petition. The full body of the legislature will meet Jan. 1 to try Black, who has been moved to a secured facility to recover his health in the meantime. In a formal statement, Speaker for the Wizengamot Augusta Longbottom said significant evidence moved the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot to action._

"_Based on the information collected by Director Bones, including veritaserum-controlled interviews with Black and the new admission of Peter Pettigrew's wand into evidence, we of the Wizengamot agree a trial must be convened," she said. "In fact, there is reason to believe the so-called victim may have been the true perpetrator, himself."_

_._

Harry turned to the head table again, where his mum looked happy, his dad thoughtful, and Snape still appeared halfway between a migraine and an aneurism. His fellow Slytherins whispered about it regardless of parentage, debating the possibilities with growing excitement. Apparently, _no one_ left Azkaban. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw contingents seemed to share similar interest; however, the noise emitting from Gryffindor very nearly overwhelmed their neighbours'. Fred and George Weasley even left the table early, while behind them a few especially loud people proclaimed Gryffindor's inability to produce traitors, at all. In their mind, the person who committed the atrocious mass-murder and assisted attempted infanticide could never have been one of their number. The boy whose birth parents died before he could know them eleven years and one day ago could not quite determine how to feel. Draco, at least, seemed to share his indecision. He alone of Harry's friends and family remained stoic in the face of wild speculation.

...

The Doctor and Rose left breakfast earlier than usual in order to re-examine the writing beside the second floor girls' bathroom: he with his customary gear (plus a banana for the trip), and she with a silver case of Torchwood-developed analysis tools. After an especially strong calming draught much earlier that morning, Filch had quit the infirmary and his vigil beside the prone old cat and cordoned off the still damp-smelling area with black velvet rope. He paced, red eyed and wheezing, back and forth before the gory message and made threatening faces at the children who passed. Even in his grief and rage, however, the man knew better than to treat Rose with anything save the greatest respect after his violent display.

"Professors," he muttered as the couple approached.

She regarded him coolly and stepped through the space he made with no further acknowledgement. She wasn't sure if she could maintain civility if she spoke to him. The Doctor, who had witnessed the confrontation through his surveillance system, also restricted himself to a curt greeting.

"Filch," he nodded.

The unpleasant caretaker hooked the rope back into place and stood back to glare sulkily at their backs while the two continued their examinations from last night. The Doctor took his screwdriver in one hand and his sonically upgraded wand in the other and commenced a thorough scan over each letter. Rose, meanwhile, sprayed an aerosol over the carpet. She rummaged again in her open case for a torch, and Filch made a sound of surprise and appreciation as footprints formed across the low pile. She followed a set of small paw prints with the beam, which came to an abrupt stop a few feet from the message on the wall.

"Looks like she saw whoever did it," she mused. "Too bad cats can't talk."

The Doctor hummed a vague agreement, more focused on scratching at the writing with a fingernail. When this failed to achieve the desired effect, he sniffed and then licked the stuff. His wife sighed loudly. He grimaced.

"Chicken," he concluded. "Male chickens, to be specific. Someone had a great big bucket of Rooster blood, which they put-"

He swivelled and pointed his sonic at a round section of fluorescing carpet near his own feet.

"Right there."

Rose joined him and passed the beam carefully over the strip of carpet directly in front of the writing.

"Yeah, but there aren't any feet pointed that way."

The Doctor squatted beside the shape he assumed belonged to the bucket and mimed putting one down.

"They had _two_ buckets, then," Filch interjected. "One to step on, and held the other to do the painting. Vile brats. I knew it was one of those filthy little mongrels!"

The professors sent him synchronised glares, and the grumbling old man returned to his spot beside the rope barrier.

"Maybe not a bucket," the Doctor groaned, fisting his hair. "A smart person with a good grasp of permanent petrifaction curses or potions could have controlled someone else to do it. Or else, directed things from further away…"

"We've got nothing, don't we?" Rose huffed.

"Yeah, just about," her husband agreed. "Just the readings surrounding Harry's noggin on his way up. They definitely got wonkier, but I don't know that it's related, really. Just a response to emotional stimuli, maybe. He's a magical pre-teen. He's got to be a mess in there, sometimes, not counting-"

"Everything else he's been put through, yeah," the mother finished. "So what, now?"

The lanky man shot to his feet and grinned widely, flicked his wand to banish the briefcase back to their rooms and clear away the fluorescing prints, and looped his arm with his wife's.

"Research, Professor Smith," he crowed as he held back the rope for her. "After which we'll examine the patient again."

"Of course, Professor Smith," Rose laughed. "We'll make it a date."

They walked together back to the main staircase, where he went one way and she went another. Rose did her best to reassure the kids who passed through her classes, and the Doctor was quick to cover the legend in class while presenting evidence against Slytherin's reputation as a budding proponent of genocide. The man had helped lead a school that taught non-magically raised children for nearly a hundred years after its founding before leaving it forever, after all, and a few personal accounts included in _Hogwarts a History_ even expressed his views in black and white. After such convincing arguments, most students came to the conclusion someone with a grudge against Filch had pulled an especially cruel prank. Certainly, the news about Sirius Black seemed to come up more often in the conversations Rose heard throughout the day. However, after penning a subtly worded thank-you note to Amelia Bones, little else occupied her thoughts. The chamber probably existed based on the number of first and second-hand resources referencing its construction, even if they did not record its location. But most troubling of all, she wondered after the supposed weapon within. In all her time travelling with the Doctor, she had never encountered a being or power completely undetectable by Gallifreyan technology, upon which the M3 system had been based. It mapped everything by measuring time energy, the manipulation of space, and manifestations of fluctuations in both the void and vortex.

Something or someone had attacked the cat, but if the Doctor's reports were to be believed, no one could have.

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this installment. Please do review. They inspire me more than you'll ever know. This is the last chapter I have pre-written, and while the next one's in the works, I'm not sure when it's going to be posted. Meanwhile, I may be posting a little plot bunny's brain nibbles on my profile in a new FemHarry story.

Keep a look out for it if you're interested. It's going to be an AU with major deviations from J.K.'s originals, although I'm going to remain as true as I can to the characters themselves unless something in the Alternate Universe would absolutely not work with particular traits.

I hope to see you here next time.

Love,

Forensica X


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